I expected to unravel in the wilderness. Instead, I found freedom at the canyon's edge—and spent five days holding space while Seren and I rode horses bareback and watched shooting stars.
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Integration
Seren was goofing around as I practiced yoga in the living room and one of her feet bumped my cheek. I dropped to the floor as if I’d been hit with a battering ram, racking sobs tearing from my body. I didn’t understand why I was crying—my face didn’t hurt—but I couldn’t stop. Shon and Seren wrapped their arms around me as I cried. Shouldn’t I be over this by now?
And most days, as I leaned into gratitude of having Shon back, I did feel over it. But there were still sharp corners and shards of grief stuck inside, just waiting to be released—I foresaw my process of integrating the past year and a half as messy, falling apart, flailing and grappling, as I tended those jagged places.
I took this messy vision of integration to a Wilderness Retreat for Mothers and Children—five days and four nights off grid, sitting in council with other mamas, connecting with the land, each other, and ourselves, while our children were well tended. Seren and I passed the four-hour drive chatting, listening to stories, and singing songs. When we pulled off the gravel road to park on the dry grass, our guides welcomed us and showed us where we could camp. We gamely slogged our camping gear back into the trees and set up our tent, then headed to the ranch house to meet the other kids and mamas. From one moment to the next, it seemed, we were drawn into the circle, the earth, the now.
As I wander the wilderness on my own, I stop at the edge of an incredible canyon. The wind rustles the leaves and my hair. When it stills, I hear water far, far below. Instead of the torrent of grief I expected, I am met with lightness, awe, grounding. I am reminded that integration isn’t always what we imagine—it can be joyously unexpected. What I am is free.
The tears I do shed are for others. There is much grief in this circle of Mothers, seated beneath the Ponderosa Pine, rooting deep into the earth. Searching. Revealing. Pain and joy pour forth unfiltered. And we listen. Hear. Hold space.
Universe. Wilderness. Women. Children. Guide me to be of service and embrace any Knowings I need. Help me to integrate and stand firmly in who I am. In my power.
It is now clear this is why I am here—to hold space. A gift I give freely and have been given so freely. This new aspect of integration, this capacity to give, is a numinous surprise, when I expected to be broken on the forest floor, a she-wolf howling as the pent-up pain bursts forth.
I sit.
Slow down.
Sit.
Slow down.
The veil between worlds is thin. I sit in Council for hours, meditating, drawing, listening, holding space. Connecting with these Mothers. It is a time of gathering power—of stepping into a new phase of Trust and growing my connection to earth, to self, to spirit. With witnesses. As an Artist and Change Maker. As a leader. As a web weaver. I accept my power with a clarity I’ve often longed for—the mirror of me so clear. In the heat, the dryness, I share my power as I bear all. I bare all. The trees, conduits between Spirit and Earth, call me—model how this is done. I am a conduit. Gathering. Clearing. Connecting. Becoming flow.
Witness to my truth, another Mother watches as I unknowingly model what it looks like to be my own authority and stand up for myself. She approaches, looks me in the eye, both our eyes wet with salty tears, and says, “Thank you for showing me what is possible.”
This time with Seren is a gift. We are well nourished with incredible food, time in nature for just the two of us, space for our individual explorations with our own guides. We ride horses bareback across the land. We play and sing songs, connecting deeply with other mamas and children. We careen down the slip and slide with screams and laughter. We watch horses graze on the hillside as the sun sets. Seren sees her first shooting stars as we sleep together under the Perseid meteor shower. It is pure magic. Pure, exhausting, magic.
Seren and I left the retreat with full hearts and sweaty bodies, both of us missing Shon and ready to sleep in our own beds. I slept deeply that night, snuggled between Shon and Seren, who had snuck into our bed in the middle of the night. My time home was sweet, but short. I was home for less than twelve hours before leaving on another five-day adventure, this time on my own—my first solo trip in years.
What does integration look like for you—and has it ever surprised you?