Retreat

Falling Forward in Camden, Maine

I am writing from a comfy chair in the corner of my room at The Inn at Camden Place. The window is open, and a cool breeze brushes my legs. On the dresser are fresh flowers, sea salt and caramel chocolates, two bottles of sparkling water, and a handwritten note. Paintings of flowers hang around the room, coordinated but unique. The large bed is covered in a soft white duvet. Huge pillows are stacked neatly, but invite me to make a nest.

The Inn at Camden Place is built over the Megunticook River. In fact, the river is right below my window. The sounds of running water provide the background that white noise machines can only aspire to. This room has good writing vibes. The ingredients are here. Now I just have to quiet my mind enough so the words have room to emerge.

I am in Camden, Maine, for the Falling Forward writing retreat, a weekend of writing and reinvention. I met the other 10 women attending the retreat last night at dinner. None of us is quite sure how the retreat came to be or what we will make of it. The organizers have woven together structure and possibility, providing space for each of us to find what we need here.

Camden is a town of just over 5,000 people on Maine’s coast. My initial reading of it suggests that it is a town of contradictions. Summer tourists are evident, in line at the ice cream stand and taking pictures of the harbor. But I also sense a strong local community here. The people I’ve met seem proud of this place, pointing out the town’s foundations and its innovations.

The writing retreat is coordinated by the Midcoast Villager, a weekly local newspaper that resulted from the merger of four legacy newspapers, with roots back to the early 1800s. The Villager’s website describes it as a new weekly newspaper (founded in September 2024) with an old soul, another contradiction. Its mission is to build community through reliable information, great storytelling, and convening. Yes, convening. In this era of online news, the Villager hosts live events and weekly editor office hours. The Villager Cafe shares a building with the newsroom, and community members are invited to events that encourage conversation.

The Villager is also hosting this writing retreat, another opportunity for convening. I signed up as soon as I learned about it because the closure of the Iowa Summer Writing Festival left a hole in my summer. I had been browsing other writing opportunities, many of them online. I love the convenience of online opportunities. I have had the chance to learn so much about writing that I would not have otherwise had access to. But I wanted one in-person experience this summer.

Like Camden and the Midcoast Villager, retreats are also spaces of contradictions. The word retreat means “to draw in,” “to draw back,” and perhaps most interestingly, “to leave the extremities.” Retreats break routines and pause obligations. They are spaces for contemplation, for soul searching. They bring us back to what is core in our lives. But this retreat is done in community. The organizers have planned intentional convenings, chances to have ourselves reflected back to us, to be seen, and to see others. We are drawing back not from each other, but with each other. And still, I expect I’ll spend many hours here in this chair, connecting with myself.

As I am writing this, our first workshop, taught by Lyz Lenz, starts in just 45 minutes. I have intentions for this workshop. I want to take time to figure out what I’m doing with my writing. Last night, at dinner, as we were introducing ourselves, I shared the many transitions that have occurred in my life recently, transitions that have left holes and been threaded with grief. And then I quoted a line from Ross Gay: “Maybe there’s some other story.” I am trying to write my own story, one that takes a thread from my past and weaves it into a new tapestry that exists alongside the grief. Although this starts my 3^rd year of writing weekly Substack posts, I’m not working on a memoir, or a novel, or even a collection of essays. . . not yet. I am writing myself first, but I appreciate you being here for the process. Yes, another contradiction, writing myself in full view.