The Retreat
Here I am, sitting halfway across the world, writing the story of my life, I thought.
A light breeze animated the garden around me. Yellow poppies, blue lilacs, and white daisies with spots of purple dye hummed with bumblebees brushing their fuzzy limbs against the pollen. Light birdsong twittered from the trees in the distance, piercing through the crisp September air. I miss the sounds of nature, I thought.
I arrived to the town of Selby earlier that day. The sun was bright and the sky was blue and a local girl named Jenny picked me up in a white Toyota. During our car ride she told me about her horses and her love of riding them.
“The cost of maintenance has gotten too high,” she said with a thick, local accent. “So I picked up this job at the Retreat with Jan.”
We arrived at the Retreat at around noon. The building was an old Tudor-style pub that was converted into a bed & breakfast. The Retreat director, Amber, would later tell us about the time a group of villagers stood outside at night in protest, staring into the windows for two hours straight.
The Retreat was located in a small hamlet called Beal, which was in the town of Selby on the outskirts of Yorkshire. About 3 hours by train from London. I was the first of the writers to check into their room. There was a black chalkboard where seven room keys hung alongside handwritten names:
Betsy. Carol. Bob. Rob. Mary. Phil. Matt.
After settling in, I decided to walk around the picturesque neighborhood with my camera. It was afternoon and my sight was filled with nothing but English cornfields and rolling green hills of cows and sheep. Brick houses were ordered in linear rows, each allotted with square patches of grass. A two-foot wall lined the perimeter of each yard. It was just short enough to see the clotheslines draped with drying laundry. I felt as if I had stepped into a dream.
I’ve always had the habit of viewing my life through the lens of a movie. As if my story was only a good one if it fit into a neat dramatic structure. I was feeling stuck with my story. I found myself in a position of waiting for the next experience to happen. For some reason, I fixate on writing about the events, as if life ceases to exist during the quiet space in between.
As I get older, I find the need to notice memories as they are happening. An excersice of hyper-awareness. I try to imprint each moment in my mind like a photograph, or else it’ll slip away forever into the white abyss of time.
I found a seat on an empty bench nestled in the public garden. It was late in the afternoon. I closed my eyes and thought about my past. Memories floated down the infinite river of my mind. I held each moment delicately like photographic negatives soaking in liquid, stained with subjectivity. I thought if I could look close enough, I would find tiny patterns of meaning scattered throughout.
“Where did this compulsion come from?” I thought. The writerly urge to find meaning in every little detail.
Gentle drops of rain began to fall. It was a sun shower.
The universe is chaos, I thought. Infinite fragments flickering like the random twitch of a dog’s eye. It’s easy to look back and shape a story we want to be true. We survey the data behind us like an equation we can solve - predicting what comes next in the mathematical sequence. But the truth is we can never surely know.
-----
I went back to the Inn where I found the rest of the writers sitting together at a table. They appeared to be waiting.
“So you’re the mysterious Matt,” one man said.
His name was Bob. He was at the Retreat with his friend, Rob. Bob and Rob - two friends from Newcastle who worked together in radio. Both of them were tall with dark hair and brown eyes and they had the deep, soothing voices of an audiobook narrator (which they both did on the side).
Bob had the more athletic build of the two. His face was classically handsome with a square jaw and straight hair neatly combed. He wore fitted jeans and a flannel shirt suited for autumn. His demeanor was gentle and he was naturally friendly.
Rob had curlier hair and a five o’clock shadow. He wore small glasses on his black, beady eyes. His spine hunched with a curve like someone who’d been sitting at a desk for many years. He wore a long sleeve thermal shirt with olive cargo shorts.
There were three women in the group - Carol, Betsy, and Mary. The three of them seemed to be a few years younger than my mother. Each of them had adult children who moved away from home. They all lived within an hour’s drive and they came to the Retreat as a gift to themselves, reuniting with a hobby from their youth.
I couldn’t help but wonder how I seemed to them. An American from California who flew six thousand miles for a three day writing retreat. I had all the markings of a “bad writer” too. An advertising executive from Los Angeles with the vain, unimaginative impulse to write about himself.
Lastly, there was Phil. Phil was closer to me in age - somewhere in his thirties. He had spikey brown hair, a goatee beard, and spoke with a jittery cadence. He told us about the play he was writing. It was about two men with the same face.
“So, like twins?” I asked.
“No, not twins,” he said.
And so there we were. An unlikely group of seven writers sequestered together for a sunny weekend in Selby.
The first two days passed with a hypnotic repetition, delineated only by meals, sleep, and writing.
Breakfast was served promptly at 8am. We made ourselves coffee and sat around the long dining table like a family tense with silence. Jenny the horse girl would come in to take our orders - varying versions of the classic English breakfast. For myself, I asked for scrambled eggs, sausage, beans, and mushrooms with a side of white toast.
We sat quietly and avoided eye contact while we waited for our food. The idea of a writer’s retreat was very funny to me. A group of introverts forced to have every meal of the day at the same table.
Amber was our group chaperone for the weekend. She was a professional writer who worked at the Retreat part-time to facilitate workshops and tutoring. She had silky blonde hair and expressive blue eyes and spoke with the patient tenor of a grade school teacher. Her full-time job consisted of writing screenplays for Bollywood films produced in the UK.
After breakfast, it was time for us to write. We each found a comfortable spot throughout the inn (I laid on a sofa in the common room). The inn was incredibly still. Dust settled on the bookshelves and lined the window sills. A musky scent waded beneath the stronger mask of lavender Febreeze. We all crept quietly as to not disturb each other. The floorboards would creak under the weight of our footsteps, muted by the wall-to-wall carpet. This feels like a study hall at my grandparents house, I thought.
At 1pm we broke for lunch. Jenny brought out plates of canned tuna with steamed potatoes and shredded jack cheese. I watched as each writer passed around the glass bowls filled with mayonnaise, scooping it with their spoons and mixing it into the dry heaps of tuna.
“The other day I saw an animal I had never seen before,” Amber said, breaking the ice. “Can anyone guess what it was?”
“A sloth,” Rob quipped.
“A stoat?” Bob said.
“No, no. It wasn’t a sloth and it wasn’t a stoat,” Amber said.
“Was it a possum?” I asked.
“No, we don’t have possums here,” Amber said with a smile.
“Was it a weasel?” Carol asked.
“No,” Amber said.
“A marmot?” Betsy asked.
“No.”
“A minx,” Mary said.
“Yes! It was a minx! That’s right, Mary,” Amber said.
Mary had a broad frame and plucky black hair and her face wore a serious complexion. She would tell us about her municipality job working in transportation. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, it was about national politics and infrastructure.
Afternoon tea was served at 4pm. The eight of us sat around the table spreading clotted cream and strawberry jam onto our scones while Amber gave lessons on story structure.
“Be careful using too much description,” she would say.
It was on the second night when we decided to grab drinks at the bar after dinner and retire to the common room. The room was filled with a charming assortment of mismatched chairs and sofas. The ceiling was low and the only light came from a tungsten lamp in the corner. The group of us huddled around like sailors below deck on a cold night in a wooden ship. The men held half empty pints filled with local ale and the women had glasses of heavy red wine. The scent of dinner lingered in the air.
We sat in silence with intermittent small talk. We discussed matters such as British celebrities and old television programs, recounting the past with wistful notes of fondness.
“Has anyone got any ghost stories?” Amber asked the group.
The writers chuckled and looked down at their drinks. A full minute passed before someone spoke.
“I have one,” Bob said. He took a sip of his diminishing pint and spoke low and tenderly.
“I don’t believe in ghosts personally,” he said, “but when I was a boy, around eleven or twelve, my sister and I were at a summer house playing on the back porch. It was evening and the sun had gone down. I can’t remember the name of the game,” Bob said as he stacked his fists, smiling. “Do you know the one? Where you stack the logs one by one by one…” he trailed off, mouthing the words softly.
“Anyway. We were looking behind the house and saw a person’s shadow move in the garden. It was pretty—well, yes—it was dark. But we both saw something there,” he said absently, lost in thought.
“Come to think of it,” he said, “if it wasn’t a ghost, then it was someone in our garden. I’m not sure which is creepier.”
The group laughed, stealing them away from a state of rapt listening.
“Anyone else have any ghost stories?” Amber said, looking around the room with a goading smile.
We all sat in a circle like an anonymous group meeting.
“No? Well I’ve got one,” Amber said. “My family dog passed away when I was in Uni. I loved that dog so much - she was my life. Her name was Rosie.”
Amber’s eyes drifted down towards the ground.
“When I was younger, Rosie used to push her nose against my door at night and grunt to get in. Well I went back to stay with my mum and dad and I slept in my old room. This was years later. But that night, there she was, pushing her nose and grunting.”
We all smiled.
“My husband saw Rosie too,” she continued
“No,” someone said.
“Really?” Said another.
“Yep, years later. He saw her walk across the hall in broad daylight.”
“Had you told him about your own incident?” Bob asked.
“No!” Amber said.
Bob and the others shook their heads in disbelief.
“It’s spooky isn’t it? How there are some things we can’t explain?” Amber said.
“I have a story,” I said, suddenly compelled to share. The attention of the room turned to me.
“I worked on this movie back in the day about a group of magicians who orchestrate a heist.”
“Oh yeah, I remember that. Good film,” said Rob.
“Well we worked with this magic consultant. He also designed the New York Times crossword puzzle. He just has one of those minds, you know? He took us into a conference room one day and he did one of those pick-a-card tricks.”
I motioned the act with my hands.
“I pick my card and look at it. He hands me a sharpie and tells me to write my initials anywhere. I put the card back into the deck and he shuffles it. Then he hands me a fresh kiwi. He tells me to inspect it for any signs of entry - seams or otherwise. Nothing. Perfectly fresh. He cuts it open and my card is there, inside the kiwi, folded up with my initials.”
The room laughed.
“Did he grow you a new card inside the kiwi then?” Phil joked.
“That was my son,” Betsy chuckled. “He always wanted to show everyone his tricks.”
“How about that man who sat on a bench and disappeared for two weeks?” Amber said. “Eckhart Tolle. Do you know him?”
Carol nodded. “Oh yes,” she said, “The Power of Now.”
“Exactly,” Amber said. “His body stayed on the bench - it ended up being only an hour. But his mind was some place else for two whole weeks. Can you imagine that?”
“Disassociation, perhaps?” Phil said.
“Perhaps,” Amber said with a shrug.
“That happened to me once.”
The room collectively turned to look at Mary. She spoke with a soft northern accent and her lips were tightly perched. She had been quiet for most of the evening, slowly sipping her pint of Carling. I turned in my chair to face her. She was sitting right next to me.
“There are two and a half months of my life I don’t remember,” she said.
The room sat quietly.
“What happened?” Someone asked.
“Technically it was a breakdown. It’s ok, I can say that.”
“Were you living alone?”
“No, I was living with my family. My husband and kids. I went to see my doctor one day and she asked me what I’ve been up to. I couldn’t tell her. I didn’t know. That’s when we realized. My husband was saying we had seen a movie, the one with Hugh Grant. Gentleman, is it? ‘I never saw a movie with Hugh Grant,’ I said. I would remember that.”
“Did they ever tell you what you were doing the whole time? Your family?” Rob asked.
“Of course. They said I was normal for the most part. Though my husband could tell something was off.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t remember. It was a complete black out.”
“When was this, Mary?” Bob asked.
“About 18 months ago. I’m fine now.”
We all sat around, deep in thought, processing Mary’s story. Analysis and theories were cast about the room. Someone whispered fascinating.
I leaned over to Mary and asked as delicately as I could, “was it ever diagnosed?”
She looked into my eyes and nodded her head.
“Depression,” she said.
The room returned to another interval of silence. A few drank from their glasses.
“Carol!” Amber said cheerfully, changing the subject. “How did you get into poetry?”
“Oh dear,” Carol said, shifting in her seat. She was nestled in the corner of the sofa wearing a fuzzy blue sweater.
“Well, I suppose it goes back to when I was young. I always loved to write in school. Poetry was my favorite. I stopped around the time I got married,” she said.
The group looked at each other. Her comment lingered and I felt sad.
“Why did you stop?” Rob asked.
“Because I married a controlling alcoholic,” she said with a laugh. “I divorced him when I was 40. I loved him very much,” her voice trailed off.
“But why did you stop? If you don’t mind me asking — I figured we’re here and all—“
“It’s ok,” Carol said.
Rob was right, I thought. The idea of baring your soul to a group of strangers was oddly liberating.
“He started to write poetry,” Carol answered, “so I stopped.”
The room gasped with audible sympathy.
I can’t believe it.
He just started?
Just like that?
“Did he know about your poetry?” Bob asked.
“Yes, of course. One day he decided to try it himself. He sat down and wrote the most beautiful poem. Certainly better than anything I could ever write. So I stopped.”
Carol took a moment to think and a smile spread across her face.
“But I divorced him when I was 40, and after that, I started to write poems again.”
“Does he still write poetry?” Bob asked enthusiastically.
“No. No,” she said calmly, as if anticipating the question. “Five years later he drank himself to death.”
Bright headlights flashed through the windows as a car neared the Inn on the road outside. The room was stunned.
“I’m sorry,” we said.
Eventually I excused myself from the group. It was nearing 10:30 and I was still feeling tired from the jet lag. I stood up to leave and said goodnight leaving the other writers behind with the remnants of their empty drinks.
On the final day, the group of us each worked quietly on our writing, dispersing into our own private corners of the property.
It was around mid-day when I walked into the dining room to fix myself some tea. I quietly stirred the chamomile bag with my metal spoon as I looked at the painting in front of me. It was a generic still life of fruit next to a vase of flowers. The kind of painting one finds at a homegoods store. It wasn’t the painting that caught my attention, however. It was the reflection I saw in the glass frame.
Behind me, sitting in the corner of the room, I could see Bob. Or what used to be Bob. The light the transformed him into a dark figure - cloaked in shadow like a fading apparition. He appeared to be writing on his laptop. I wondered what he was writing. Was it a happy thought, or a sad one? The shadowy figure exhaled a deep sigh. Perhaps he’s writing about a heaviness, I thought. A piece of him that broke off and died a long time ago. A withering mass lodged in his soul, haunting the caverns of his mind, begging to see the light of day.
The moment came after supper for the final group share, where each writer would read a passage from their work. Phil read a witty excerpt from his play about doppelgängers called Fair Trade. Carol read a funny poem about seagulls.
Eventually it was my turn to share. The story I had been writing still felt too raw and unformed and I decided it wasn’t ready.
“I actually wrote a poem if that’s ok,” I said.
“Of course, read whatever you would like,” Amber said.
“It’s called Plain Sailing,” I began to read.
The wind is gentle,
Calm is the sea
The air is cool,
Mind is at ease.
The boat softly rocks.
Wood panels creak
With groans of old age
Yet no signs of leaks.
Forward we move
Yet idle we sit.
Not a cloud in the sky,
Nor wave our boat hits.
The sail is blowing,
Ropes tied to the mast.
A ship with no wake
Leaves no trail in its past.
My heart is content,
But my eyes are out there.
Anxiously waiting
For change in the air.
I finished the poem and dropped the notebook to my side.
“That’s all I have,” I said.
My eyes were averted but I could feel the gaze of the class looking at me, uncertain of their reaction.
“That’s ok,” Amber said in a maternal voice.
“What you have is plenty.”