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Don’t worry, though. I’ve participated in a lot of retreats and I’ve led a lot of retreats: both require us to go through this slightly anxious part about “Can I do this?”
Why? Because the world hums at a punishing volume that is mostly invisible to us and even when we try to slow down, we tend to bring our hurry with us.
That’s exactly why I love leading one-day mindfulness retreats: because somewhere between arrival and departure, something subtle but real happens — a softening.
Your are invited to exhale, to land, to remember that there’s nowhere to get to, nothing to do and nothing to fix. You get yourself comfortable and then you can just be here. Right now.
We start with a grounding practice: breathing, noticing, arriving. I often guide people to feel their feet, the weight of the body on the earth. Sometimes we begin by listening — to the birds, to a distant plane, to the soft shuffle of someone shifting in their seat. Awareness is always there, waiting, patient as sky.
After our first sit, we move into gentle mindful movement — not athletic, not performative — just a chance to inhabit the body with curiosity. I encourage people to let go of “doing it right.” We might move slowly through standing stretches, noticing texture, breath, and balance. Someone usually laughs, someone sighs. The group energy begins to loosen, like soil after rain.
People are invited to share what brought them here and what their intention is for the day.
Throughout the day, we alternate between stillness and gentle activity: sitting meditation, walking meditation, mindful eating at lunch. I ask everyone to eat in silence — as an experiment in awareness. The crunch of an apple becomes its own universe when you’re not also scrolling your phone.
By mid-afternoon, the quiet starts to feel like an old friend. People’s faces look softer. The edges blur. Some even nap under a tree during the break, which I secretly consider a sign of deep success.
We close the day with a circle of reflection. I ask everyone to notice what’s different — not what’s better or worse, just what’s true. We also talk about the messy, real parts: the overthinking, the impatience, the emotional weather that sweeps in uninvited. There’s room for laughter, for awkwardness, for whatever shows up. I share a few of my own stories too — times when I’ve lost my way and found my breath again.
Some talk about feeling peaceful. Others realize how exhausted they’ve been. One person might cry; another might say nothing at all. The point isn’t to achieve enlightenment, It’s to remember that presence is possible, even here, in the middle of our ordinary, noisy lives.
As people drive away, I may stand for a moment and watch the road. The day returns to its usual pace. But I know something has shifted — small, quiet, enduring. A remembering that being is enough.
That’s what you can expect on retreat: not perfection, not escape — but the gentle rediscovery of your own stillness, waiting patiently beneath all the doing.
Later that night, when I’m home and all is quiet again, I may step outside. The crickets sing, the stars show up sharp and clear. And I remember to breathe – in, pause, out, pause. Holding my intention for the day and holding all the people who came in my heart.
And just like that, the whole day becomes distilled into a single truth:
The practice isn’t about escaping the noise of life. It’s about hearing it fully — and realizing you’re still here, breathing, in the middle of it all.
