The first time I experienced the weeklong Freefall Writing retreat was way back in June 2007 at Edenvale Retreat Center, an hour east of Vancouver, British Columbia. I was nervous during the entire three-hour drive from Seattle not only because it was a bit of a hike for me, who’d rarely driven long distances alone, but also because I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I heard the refrain of what a seasoned participant told me: “Go for it. You’d love it!” But my self-doubt also kept creeping in. I’d never considered myself creative and had no prior experience in creative writing except journaling. Nonetheless, I decided to take the plunge as I desperately needed something to reignite inspiration.
When the charming cottage-like building came into view, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. There was something very tranquil about the setting—the beautiful gardens and the property surrounded by the lush forest immediately put me at ease. Just go for the experience, and don’t let my self-sabotaging voice get in the way, I told myself as I parked my car.
After settling in a quaint cottage room, I headed to the lobby to meet the other participants. I learned that there were eight of us: four female Washingtonians, one male and three female Canadians, and our instructor, Barbara, another Canadian.
The workshop officially began after dinner on Sunday, followed by a brief meet-and-greet information session. Barbara told us to follow five simple-sounding precepts: 1) Write what comes up; 2) Don’t change anything; 3) Give all the sensuous detail; 4) Go where the energy is, “go fearward”; and 5) Observe the “Ten-Year Rule,” meaning, write about “well-composted” material that is more than ten years old. That was it. It sounded so simple, yet profound—almost Zen-ish. This method was supposed to help us learn to write from the larger Self, escaping the ego’s grip. But how? Energy? What energy? I felt like a scared little kid on the first day of school, overwhelmed by not knowing what to expect, let alone continuously writing creatively for several hours every morning.
The following day, after breakfast, our silent writing began. We were to keep writing until lunchtime at 1:00. During this writing session, my Inner Critic ran amok and kept bothering me: “Who are you to think you can write?” I had to confront the deadly combination of academic writing background and the fierce inner critic that had grown so powerful over the past ten years while beating myself up as a mom. I became so frustrated at one point that I wrote a scathing letter of criticism to that vicious Inner Critic. By the end of that writing session, all I’d produced was the scathing letter and a short piece about my dog, Shelly, and losing her to heart failure while living in Minnesota. When dropping off my writings at Barbara’s office to be evaluated, I felt discouraged, comparing mine to the others’ prolific works. I also felt lost, as I didn’t know what I was doing.
After lunch, we had some spare time before the 4:00 seminar, so I mingled with fellow Freefallers and also walked through the forest with some of them. I was somewhat relieved to discover that I wasn’t the only one struggling to figure out Freefall.
The seminar consisted of discussions and exercises on creative writing, followed by nearly two hours of listening to Barbara read anonymously some of our works she’d handpicked to share with the group. This period was nerve-racking as we braced ourselves to find out whether we were following the precepts accordingly. At the end of each piece, we shared constructive, supportive comments, and she went on to the next piece. While Barbara’s storytelling voice was so beautiful and pleasant to listen to, I couldn’t relax the whole time; What if she never reads mine? Does that mean my writing is terrible?
Though she did read the short piece I wrote about my dog Shelly, I wasn’t so happy as I anticipated another torture session awaiting me the next day. Feeling discouraged, I had a chat with one of the more experienced writers. She was very supportive of what I’d written and encouraged me to keep going. Two more writers joined us, and the topic of our discussion drifted to whose works were read and why some of our works were not.
By the end of the second day, I almost gave up and went home but decided to talk to Barbara about it first. I teared up as I told her that every time I started writing about my motherhood experiences, I would break down and cry because they were just too painful to recall.
“Maybe this isn’t for me,” I said, sighing.
She understood why those experiences were still too raw, and reminded me of the fifth precept (the Ten-Year Rule) and suggested writing something else instead.
“Like childhood, maybe?”
I thought for a moment, “Yes, I could do that,” I said, looking at her as if she were my Divine Mother.
“Okay, do that. You are doing great. You managed to slip through the net of Inner Critic in your writing today. Just keep going, be fully present in the moment, and go from one thing to the next, scene by scene, moment by moment, and you’ll get there.”
Her support and encouragement were just what I needed at that moment. They boosted my energy, empowering me to tackle another grueling writing session the following day.
Surprisingly, the third day was when the magic started to happen. As I recalled my childhood and immersed myself in the writing process, I lost track of time. I also cried for my childhood self, which I found tremendously cathartic. It felt as if writing became my ally, opening up a new pathway for self-discovery and walking along beside me. When it was time to stop, I wanted to keep going. It was surreal. Is this what Barbara was referring to as “an unmistakable shift into a deeper level”?
When Barbara read my childhood stories, many in the group had tears in their eyes, and one of them grabbed a tissue to wipe hers. Their feedback was kind and generous. The tone of group interaction set by Barbara was so nurturing and compassionate that I felt as if wrapped in a warm blanket of loving energy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this happy—to be seen, heard, accepted, and valued for who I was and what I’d gone through. Over the previous ten years since becoming a mother, I’d neglected to care for myself while overcompensating, trying to become the best mother I could be to my son, and ended up feeling like I was absolutely nothing. I was immensely grateful for this powerful experience that provided the most potent antidote to that negative state of mind I’d long been trapped in.
The rest of the retreat went just as well. By the time the workshop came to a close, together with excellent, wholesome meals prepared by the staff at the center, my body and soul felt nourished and well cared for, even energized despite fatigue. I bonded with the other writers and we hugged each other repeatedly before departing.
There was something spiritual, magical, and healing about this experience. I felt connected to everything and everybody, and my perspective shifted, becoming more positive and expansive. And above all, I returned home happy and exhilarated. Maybe that’s what it feels like when we transcend our ego and start to see things from a higher perspective. I know it would take constant mindfulness to maintain this bliss, and I lost it while driven by life, but I know it’s there when I need it.
I’ve since participated several more times in the weeklong Freefall Writing retreat at Edenvale. Each time, I discovered something new about myself and writing. But by far, it was during the very first retreat that I’d achieved the most significant breakthrough. I wrote three chapters in my memoir, The Pond Beyond the Forest, inspired by the pieces I’d produced during that retreat. Without this experience, I probably would have written nothing, let alone a 68,000-word book.
For more information about Freefall, visit www.freefallwriting.com and read: “Writing Without a Parachute: The Art of Freefall” by Barbara Turner-Vesselago (Jessica Kingsley Publishers, 2016).
