Reader,

I left my babe for the first time in almost 2.5 years over Spring break.

And flew off crusty-eyed across the country to my first writing retreat in the last place I ever imagined I’d go to a writing retreat: Manhattan.

Since my Neptune line runs right through the ancestral homeland on my Father’s side, which I can feel running right through my veins: Scotland, I’ve always imagined stealing away in a mossy stone cottage on the moor somewhere in the Highlands near Inverness (and Moy Hall, the once-upon-a-time castle that housed our family Clan Mackintosh).

Alas, the heart of a lass can suss out magic anywhere, cain’t shee.

Even at the edge of Tribeca, where I was lulled from sleep by late-night mambo-ing from the subterranean jazz club 6 floors beneath me (and a street sweeper that had its work cut out for it), rather than the cool shine of the full moon through my window, calling me out in my nightgown, like Claire Fraser, to Clava Cairns to join an otherworldly chorus of realm walkers dancing by firelight, their crisp, white lace gowns wetting up from their ankles in early Spring dew.

Instead of dew, we had rain.

And my first morning was set to a chorus of cabs rushing down 6th Avenue past the tiny triangle of TriBeCa “Park.” Errrm plaza? (Historically a swamp, now covered over in a triangle of stone.)

Moorish? Maybe.

Otherworldly indeed.

This 2-day writing retreat had a special magic of its own, though, as most things do if you give them a wee bit o’ time and space. Even if you’re in a concrete jungle on the “business coast” opposite the much crunchier “granola coast” you call home-sweet-home.

Forty of us were hosted by my writing mentor, Laura Belgray, who’s known for her authenticity in storytelling (and in business) – and her binge-worthy emails.

She’s real. Pragmatic. Down to earth. Funny. And anything but busy-ness.

In fact, she’s proud to be the Last of the Lazies – those rare and defiantly slothly beings from another generation before our screens and “production” schedules took us the fuck over. (Which I bet most of you here can admire. I know I do!)

That’s her own mágica especial that drew me to her business mentorship cohort, Shrimp Club.

And on day 3 of my visit, the majority of our cohort hung out in person for the first time at our Shrimp Club annual retreat with a muy especial lineup followed by cocktails at Laura’s and a late dinner at Gene’s, an OG white tablecloth kind of Italian place in Greenwich Village.

While all of this could have felt an entire solar system away from the daily crunch of my life in Southern Oregon and the work that I do with clients’ unconscious material (and how we move with it, safely and softly, into consciousness), it’s always funny to me how all roads lead to Rome.

Have you ever heard that saying?

It’s commonly used in my coaching work, or in somatic and spiritual circles and trainings. And it essentially means: everything that arises is leading you to where you’re going. Everything is important if it is what’s here, right now. All of it is material. What wants to be seen and known in you will be, regardless of the form it takes.

And here I was in Rome again.

No, not really. I was in Tribeca. But here I was in the middle of a writing retreat with a bunch of pretty business-y feeling people on the “business coast.” Not my typical style or the kind of space I like to haunt.

And what were we doing?

Presence practice.

Over and again, every writing prompt, writing exercise, every vulnerable share from another writer in the room still believing they weren’t really a writer, and every small business owner wanting to share more of themselves – more of their voice in their work – returned us to the only place we have any power. The only place our true voice comes from: the present.

Now, this. This is the kind of space, ehem, realm, I like to haunt.

Writing, creating in any form, connecting to our intuition, and deepening our relationships (inside us and out) always come back to one thing and one realm: the present.

And the entire retreat was a presence practice.

And if we’re anything alike, you don’t need another reminder to “be present.”

You need a way in.

Something portable and so stinkin’ simple you can’t overthink it.

Something you can actually do when you feel so heavy you can’t get out of bed, your thoughts are turned all the way up and you need to hear through them into something real, your life feels over-full and you just need everything to slow down, or you’re standing in the middle of a place that feels nothing like you and you’re questioning yourself.

This is the simplest practice I know for all of that.

It’s the one I shared with my fellow Shrimpers in my cohort during retreat. And it’s the one I come back to, whether I’m beside a stoney mountain burn in the Southern Oregon Siskiyous or 6 floors above an iron-and-brick-clad jazz club in Manhattan:

​That's why I call it the most powerfully simple presence practice you'll ever use.
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​※ Koa

P.S. I’m realizing more and more that the most useful work I can offer doesn’t come from some perfectly curated space, like the one at Flawless Studio in Tribeca.

It comes from meeting what’s actually here.

So I’m curious:

If you could pick my brain for an hour on something you’re in the middle of right now, what would it be?

Reply and let me know.

Can’t wait to hear what’s up for you right now.

Oh, and a few photos of me in action at the writing retreat:
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Did you get something out of this email?

A giggle. Some wisdom. Resonance. A witness. The gift of grace in simply acknowledging how absurd it is to be a human right now in a culture that offers LOTS of input but little help? Then, please share with another human who may need this too.

Thank you for reading and sharing,
​Koa

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