Retreat!

If you ever want to get work done without distractions, go on a retreat.

Last year, Antigone (not quite a sister but more than a friend – which makes her a partner in “crime”) and I participated in a self-guided writer retreat at Pendle Hill. Back then, I spent more time searching for my errant pencil than writing. [See last year’s post: The Prodigal Pencil]

This year would be different. It had to be. This year I had a definite deadline to finish edits to a novel. Antigone and I chose Temenos Retreat Center to write and reflect.

Temenos hosts workshops and conferences, or you can come on your own to bask in nature, embrace the silence, and then jolly well write (if that’s what you’re there for).

Their main building is located in the woods at the top of a long, paved drive. The campus has the distinction of being both remote (we never heard traffic while we were there) and close to the important necessities of life. Like a pizza place that delivers.

As fate would have it, Antigone and I were both born with dyslexia. I mention this because we didn’t just write during this retreat. We interacted with our environment in our own special way, beginning with …

Opening an Umbrella

Temenos has an awesome deck complete with tables and umbrellas. Naturally, the umbrellas spend the night closed.

The first time we wrote outside felt like we reenacted a joke that goes like this: How many dyslexics does it take to open a beach umbrella?

Two. One to spin the crank and the other to shriek, “You’re turning it the wrong way!”

In my defense, there’s a design flaw in the typical oversized umbrella. When it’s closed, the crank is hidden so deeply amongst the folds you have to practically crawl inside to reach it. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. The process more closely resembles stuffing one’s head inside a lion’s mouth.

My mistake was turning my face downward and to the side, once I was in there. While I grappled with the crank, I lost my “righty-tighty, lefty-loosey” references.

Mathematical word problem for dyslexics: if your head is bent to the side and the umbrella crank is on your right, in which direction do you turn the crank?

Thankfully, I had Antigone’s helpful instructions.

No matter which way I moved the crank, she insisted I was turning it the wrong way. Since I turned it both ways, at least one of those times had to be correct. From the outside, the umbrella must have resembled a fledgling testing its wings, slightly flapping up and down until I accidentally hit on the proper direction, and the umbrella finally released me from its embrace and unfurled.

At the end of our writing session, the reverse process went much smoother. I’d rather not get into the amount of fumbling and bumbling it took to tie it closed after lowering it. But I will say this. When you put two dyslexics together, any activity becomes an adventure.

Farmhouse Door

Another cool feature on the Temenos property is a centuries-old farmhouse. We borrowed the key and hiked down the trail to the farmhouse, where we settled into the rustic sitting room. We had a productive discussion about upcoming scenes in my novel, proving that we really did use our retreat for writerly reflection.

When it came time to leave the farmhouse, I dutifully slid the key into the keyhole and twisted it in what I believed to be the proper locking direction. Just to be sure, and with Antigone watching on, I pressed the door’s old-fashioned thumb latch and pushed. The door opened. I tried locking it again. And again. With each successive attempt, I discovered I hadn’t locked the door after all. I muttered to myself and fumbled some more. By now, Antigone couldn’t help but assume I knew nothing about the proper locking procedure. She took the key, gave it a twist, and stepped back. “There,” she said in satisfaction. “It’s locked.”

I’m not saying I’m a skeptical person, but I had to try the door. It opened. I might’ve smirked. She tried again, but the door still opened. I took the key back and tried for the tenth time with the same results. Now it was getting personal. I knew the door had the ability to lock. After all, it was locked when we got there. I opened the door so I could observe the locking mechanism as I twisted the key. Yup. The key definitely turned the little bolts. I closed the door and tried again. The door opened. Antigone demanded another attempt. “Now it’s locked. Don’t try to open it.”

I did, and it opened. Temenos trusted us with that key and their farmhouse. I wiggled and jiggled the key in the lock one more time.

“Don’t try to open it,” Antigone cried out. “You’ll break it. It’s locked.”

Even though we walked away, I still didn’t trust I’d succeeded after so many failures. I even confessed to the manager the possibility that, despite our best efforts, we might have left the door unlocked. She assured us it was okay. [When we returned the next day with the key, the door was, in fact, locked.]

Highland Orchards

Temenos is also near Highland Orchards. One morning, we drove there in search of apple cider donuts and lunch. GPS had to show us the way because, let’s face it, we’re accidental tourists. Sadly, GPS couldn’t help us find a place to park. Every space in the gravel lot we entered seemed to have a 15-minute parking sign. Another sign directed us down a gravel lane to “group parking,” which we soon learned was just a fancy name for “park in the grass.”

The road we’d used to enter the orchard shop was only a hundred yards behind us. Unfortunately, when it came time to leave, one-way signs prevented us from turning around and going out the way we came in. Exit signs, distributed liberally throughout the area, pointed us in the opposite direction of the road we wanted to follow. I’m usually overly cautious, but I believed in those signs.

Antigone, who was driving, wasn’t as naive. “They don’t make sense. They’re taking us the wrong way.”

“Just follow them. They’ll get us there.” I’d put just the right amount of authority in my voice that even I believed it.

Neither of us could have guessed we’d be taken on such a circuitous route. At one point, we wondered if the signs were playing a cruel trick on us. Maybe that’s how they supply themselves with workers for the orchard’s harvest. Get people so lost in the maze of exit signs they give up and ask if they can just live there and pick apples. Cruelest of all, one of the exit signs pointed us toward the side of a building. At the last minute, another sign directed us to the left, avoiding a collision. Eventually, the signs brought us to a street our GPS recognized.

Amid all that, we did write. Antigone had a breakthrough while journaling, and I came very close to completing my edits. Once I returned home, I did finish them.

We loved Temenos and highly recommend it to anyone planning a retreat or a workshop. Special thanks to Hope and Ian for making us feel welcome while we were there. We’re already planning to come back!