There’s something I would never do. My introverted and shy self wouldn’t ever entertain the thought of going to a retreat where I knew no one, had no idea who, or how many people, would be there, in a house I’d never seen, committed to 3 days of what I now call “immersive therapy “. There was no plan I knew of, no syllabus, no schedule. Just the instructions to show up sometime between 2 and 5.
Show up and then what? No thank you.
And yet, there I was arriving right at 2:00.
The 150 year old house was beautiful and the grounds were wide and open. The air was cold and crisp on a winter day in Missouri. I carried my over packed luggage inside and Theresa gave me the tour. The Journey Home was enchanting inside and out. Each room had multiple beds. I chose a bedroom no one else would likely choose so I could have my own space. Being alone was safe and comfortable for me.
At the time, I didn’t realize how off kilter this was for me. I was okay. No thoughts of anxiety, just peace. My body knew something I didn’t. I just went with it. I wandered the grounds and found a swing. Warm sun on a cold day, wind chilling my cheeks as I swung back and forth. It was beautiful. I felt like I was in the middle of nowhere, so content.
Other people arrived and that’s when my introvert took over, like a turtle shrinking back into its shell. Please, don’t see me.
The 12 women who were there did see me, though. I sat for a while in the kitchen, congregating, pretending to be ok. Then I realized my smile was a mask to hide myself and rising anxiety. In therapy I’d already worked through not being fake and just being me. I refused to sit there and continue my charade. I went upstairs for some silence and centering.
Dinner was at 5:00. And then what? I don’t think anybody knew. I wished for bedtime, but circle time is what I got. This was not like any retreat I’d ever been to.
All of us sat in a circle in low chairs and pillows, snuggled in blankets like a slumber party.
But this was no party and there’d be no slumbering until … well at the time I had no idea.
These people don’t know my bedtime, I realized.
I really don’t remember what happened next, other than introductions. There was an opening ceremony of sorts. Really ceremony sounds like too big of a word. It was an observance of the elements, ancestors, and space we borrowed to be here together. A thanking, gratitude, and invitation to join us. For me it was captivating, having never participated in something like this before.
Then we talked. Again, there’s no program of activities I can refer back to, or I’d tell you what we talked about. But I don’t think what we did was as important as how it was healing parts of me. One small activity after another. Movement, art, smashing, creating, talking, meditating, and wandering. Healing and therapy disguised as interesting incidental activities. The culmination of it all after 3 days would break me open and I’d run; freer than I’d ever been, but not yet knowing how or why.
Throughout the weekend I realized that I wanted to turn to nature and physical release, running, hitting, big movements; that’s what I needed. I want to share with you the moments that were the most soul-stirring for me.
The stomping.
We went outside and stomped. I stomped the ground with an intention to release what needed to go. I liked the exertion. I’m a stomper, fueled by a desire to run and scream and hit. I stomped all the way across the empty cornfield to the tree line. My intention was set, but the whole way there I argued with myself that my intention was unreasonable and certainly not going to be released by the time I reached the tree line. My intention was big and there was no tree line or time line that would heal it. Frustrated, I walked further around the trees. Then I traversed my way into the woods. It was serene, untouched, except by animals. I could see their tracks in the snow.
I went further in, avoiding thorned vines, stepping on downed trees. Eventually, I found myself in the middle of wooded seclusion. I marveled at the silence. Then I screamed with every bit of oxygen I had. I let my voice go echoing into the trees. I hit the trees with their very own fallen branches. I was unleashing something, the trees just a substitute for what I needed to unleash upon. I dropped to my knees in the snow and screamed and prayed. I yelled at God. I pleaded with Him. I cried and thought my tears would freeze on my face. Losing energy I sat and breathed out heavily. A visual release of warm breath into the cold air. I sat on a downed tree that was succumbing to the wet, snowy ground. I closed my eyes and sank into the silence with the tree.
The next day, back inside the circle we were asked to stand up. Walker performed his vision of his favorite tree.
I was next. “What’s your favorite tree, Bree?” asked Walker.
“Um, do I have to be the tree like you did? Or can I just tell you my favorite tree?”
No performing required, I stated that my favorite tree was a giant oak, just like the ones I grew up under in my childhood.
Everyone shared their favorite tree. Then we closed our eyes and Walker took us on a journey. We became our tree. I was a giant oak, strong and heavy. My branches spread wide creating shade in the sun. As we listened to Walker, this guided meditation took us down into the earth. Our roots growing down, reaching for water and nourishment. Overcoming impasses like rocks and endlessly going down down down towards the center of the earth. Right there, in the center, was a chance to release everything that no longer served us. Mother Earth would take it from us. My branches pounded and boomed with their great mass. Resounding that which I didn’t need anymore down into the ground through, the roots, and releasing it to the fiery center of the firmament beneath our feet.
The tree meditation was a huge physical and mental release for me as I imagined being a strong oak, purging all of the unnecessary weight it had carried for many decades. Depleted of energy, I sat down and joined the others in the circle.
Suddenly, I felt trapped. The feeling fell upon me like a heavy wet blanket; suffocating. It wasn’t because of the people in the circle or the space where we sat. I was safe. But somewhere in my body, the feeling of trapped began to compress me. I had to move or I’d be stuck there.
I hurried outside through the back door. I wanted to run, but the empty winter cornfield was all rows and divots. Remnants of corn stalks caught in the hard, cold earth. I walked as fast as I could towards the tree line. I wanted to get inside the woods and just scream. Scream is the wrong word though. I wanted to roar, to howl from the deepest parts of me. A whole body effort, bending forward and throwing my arms back. Halfway to the trees I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The pressurized primal sound came out, surely the world could hear me. It took me to my knees. And again. And again. Loud, all encompassing, sound release. I was clearing out spaces inside me that held tightly to feelings, ideas, and thoughts that hurt me. I pounded the ground until my hands hurt, but it felt good. A healing release.
I laid down on the cold earth, eyes up to the never ending blue sky, and just stared into the silence. The beautiful blue silence, dotted with barely there clouds; the remains of clouds that used to be. Listening to the wind around me, smelling the earth below me, the sun warming me just out of eyesite so I could keep gazing up, wondering if I could see the entire expanse of the sky.
I felt like I could stay there all day. I’d had a big release of energy, and now I could just be still and soak up energy from the elements. I don’t know how long I laid there, but eventually birds started circling overhead and I realized they were considering me for their next meal! I sat up and waved. They flew away. The sun was much lower in the sky when I started walking back. I turned around several times while walking, wanting to go back to the beautiful and calm.
A dormant cornfield; my sanctuary.
The one thing that I knew was on the agenda was an opportunity to participate in a firewalk. That’s probably what drew me to the retreat in the first place. I’d learned about grounding, or earthing, from Theresa. I thought it sounded ridiculous. But I tried it. The dewy morning grass felt amazing on my feet. Long barefoot walks down wooded trails in the spring. Feet connecting with the earth on leaves and moss under trees filtering warm sunlight. Walking barefoot by rivers, squishing my toes in mud and walking into the water just to stand in it. I even enjoyed walking on big boulders by the lake and pebbles lining the shore. And sometimes, ice cold snow. One of my favorites was red Oklahoma clay, cool and soft. Every time I came home I felt grounded, peaceful, my mood elevated. I’d wash the mud, dirt, and grass off my feet and relish the calmness. I was energized having traded my hectic energy to the earth in exchange for balancing energy.
A firewalk was an exciting idea to me. I’d walked in grass, mud, sand, clay, water, moss, snow, woods. But the element of fire was intriguing. Fire was the missing element from my earthing experience.
I admit that I seek out adrenaline behaviors when I’m anxious or depressed. I want that boost of excitement, even if it may be dangerous. But someone was always close by, ready to rescue me (like the time I was stuck in mud up to my calves, or had climbed just a bit too far down the large boulders by the river.)
Before the start of the firewalk, Fire Chief Walker, explained all the safety guidelines. Theresa talked to us about intention. I knew I could not make this about adrenaline. She encouraged us to have an intention, to talk to the fire about what we hoped to experience through the process.
I set my intention as the fire burning out the false beliefs I held about myself. “Create in me a clean heart, oh Lord and renew a steadfast spirit in me”. Psalm 51:10
The sun set, creating a fiery sky of oranges and pinks. It mirrored the fire as if it were watching us and participating. We gathered around a fire pit and again thanked the elements, ancestors, and borrowed space, inviting them to be with us.
Theresa explained that some people need a hyped up energy to walk the fire. But not me; I needed calm. We took turns stacking the cedar fire wood in a pattern designed to make the firewalk path.
We helped tend the flaming wood, moving pieces that had rolled out of place and keeping an eye on wayward embers. The fire was beautiful and so very hot.
Before it was almost time for Fire Chief Walker to “open” the fire for walking, I laid down in the grass and steadied myself. Deep breaths, no noise, no hype, just me and that fire. I’d been walking around barefoot outside for the 2 hours we tended the fire. I was grounded and ready. I started walking about 4 feet away, then crossed the fiery path. Not looking down, I looked straight ahead to the dark snowy cornfield. It was fantastic! I wanted to do it again and again, sometimes feeling as though I was a “fire hog”. I got no burns, just black ashy feet, and 3 pea sized bruises from the charred wood. I didn’t notice the bruises until the next day; they did not hurt at all.
Eventually Fire Chief Walker announced he was about to close the firewalk. I exclaimed I wanted to go one more time! He brought fresh fiery embers from a secondary fire near by to freshen up the walk way.
I expressed that I could have stayed out there all night under the dark sky above and the bright red embers below. It was beautiful. Walking and being in the silence was so calming. I didn’t want to go back inside. Some people asked how many times I walked; it was several, but I wasn’t keeping count. I just wanted more. Now I can add fire to my earthing experiences.
Ice cold healing fire.
We all reacted to the activities; physical, creative, and sharing our stories. No one reacted the same and no one was wrong. I reacted calmly to the more creative projects, but they affected me no less. For the firewalk I embraced calm and palpated the exhilaration of fire. I reacted very physically when given the chance, running across cornfields and hitting trees with sticks.
Roaring into the air. Cracking silence.
We were all tuning into our bodies with sound and silence, movement and stillness, destruction and creation, imagining and painting, and crying and laughing. We held space for each other by listening and not judging. It wasn’t just the paintings that were reflections of our souls, it was in everything we did, peeling back the layers of what we thought about ourselves to find ourselves.
The after effects of returning to my real world were shocking to say the least. I was so mad, upset, and confused. I contemplated “what had Theresa and Walker done to me?”; I felt shattered.
I told my friend that I’d loved every minute of it, even the hard things, while I was there. But now what? What do I do with all these emotions and holes that used to be filled with untruths I held about myself? I didn’t know what to replace it with. Had I ever experienced a true thing as a healing adult outside of my trauma?
I felt as though I was trapped in a thick glass bottle and plopped back into my life, completely detached from my surroundings, the people I live with, and even my own mind and body. I questioned everything, even things essential to me like my faith. That concerned me. But if you know me, you know I have big faith; and I believe God welcomes questions. How do we learn without asking questions? Doubt is a gift, allowing me to discover and refine my faith over and over again during my lifetime.
The next day my emotional pendulum swung way to the other side. I felt a surge of energy. I was the woman who walked on fire and I could do anything! I was full of vigor. Helping friends to move furniture from storage to basement, they sometimes thought the load was too heavy for me, to which I exclaimed “I walked on fire, I can do anything!” And, yes, I bought a T-shirt that says that.
My pendulum swung yet again, this time landing on anxiety and depression. I was poured out of that glass bottle into reality. Facing my real world where there was adulting to do. I was angry and scared. I beat up my punching bag and yelled (a therapeutic release Theresa thought me). I longed to be laying back in that cornfield, cold and still. Surrendering myself to the blue silence above.
One of the most amazing things I figured out post retreat came days later while texting with a good friend. She said she was proud of me. Again, multiple people telling me they were proud of me over the weekend. I didn’t understand. Proud of what? Then it came to me. I’d leaped out of my comfort zone, walking 5 feet out on a 4 foot limb. I’d done something I would never do. I spent 3 days with strangers at a therapeutic retreat, sharing stories, being vulnerable, learning from others, and being myself. Allowing myself the bodily awareness I so often hid trying to fit in. I’d been doing that my whole life. But there I belonged. I was especially aware of myself. I could run, cry, roar, sing, pound the ground, throw sticks, lay in the dirt, or disappear into the woods with zero concern about what others would think. I believe at the retreat was the first time I felt wholly aware of me. Unapologetically. Something new to carry with me into all my tomorrows.
My Collision with Christ 