I attended Wilder before.
Actually, I attended Wilder twice before (or partially twice before).
Wilder is a running and writing retreat intended to re-connect you with your inner voice through running and writing. The writing is “wild” writing—a practice of moving pen on paper to get out of your own way and allow your instinct onto the page. Prompts are given as an invitation to write whatever comes to mind. Without internal editor or critic. Just keep the pen moving.
At my first Wilder, I had to leave suddenly in the middle of the night due to a personal emergency. The truncated experience left me feeling somewhat disoriented about the whole thing.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go back.
I also felt really, really compelled to go back.
I decided to re-apply a year later. I was still deeply curious about the experience. And wanted to prove to myself that I belonged.
I’m so glad that I did.
My return trip to Wilder was inspiring and provocative. It yielded wonderful connection with amazing women and really cemented in me the power of “wild” writing. I had let myself be seen and witnessed. And could now put a positive wrapper on my Wilder experience.
I left not expecting to return but so grateful for the experience and the practice I took with me.
Then earlier this spring, I received an email from Lauren Fleshman (retired professional runner, Wilder creator and facilitator, Picky Bars co-founder, and all-around inspiring human being) about a new Wilder Alumni Lab—an intimate retreat experience for Wilder alumni who wanted to go deeper.
The email from Lauren read—”Wild writing is the practice of showing up on the page as you are, in all our humanity, to give ourselves and others the permission to do the same. It's a writing practice everyone is familiar with to some degree from Wilder, but with an increased focus on reading the work to hear it spoken, and be witnessed. When we learn how to do this on the page, shifts happen off the page. This work is transformative and fun and often healing, and as you know, helps you hone in on your voice and the stories you want to tell, and I can't wait to get a group of alums together to do it.”
“Are you interested?”—Lauren’s email asked.
“Yes—for sure! No - not sure. Mmm….maybe.”—my mind responded internally.
“I’m in” - my fingers typed and hit reply before I could find any reason for them not to.
A few months later, I found myself again making the now familiar road trip to Caldera Arts Center in Bend, Oregon.
This time, when I arrived, I immediately felt at home. Some of the faces were familiar from previous retreats. Some were not. Though I had not met every participant, I felt a sense of connection to each of them. I knew I belonged.
After a welcome dinner and an opening circle by the fire pit to ceremoniously mark our entering into the retreat, we moved into our first writing session. Unlike previous retreats where there was some initial set up as to what this “wild writing” practice was all about, this time, given our collective familiarity with the process, we jumped right in.
Here are a few of my personal observations from Wilder Lab:
Observation #1:
Sharing brave things invites others to do the same.
After some introductory remarks, the first writing prompt Lauren gave to loosen us up was —“ 25 things about me.” Simple enough, I thought, formulating a list in my brain. 1.) My name is Amy 2.) I live in Seattle. 3.) I’m married to Matt 4.) I am mom to Jack and Cate. 5). I wear size 7 shoe…..
But then Lauren shared her list from a previous writing retreat as an example. It included some brave things.
I recalibrated a little.
After someone shares something even semi-brave, you kind of feel like a heel if you just share your kids’ names and your shoe size. (I really wouldn’t have listed my shoe size—to be clear. I am not lame :)
So I wrote my list. I included some (moderately) brave things. I was feeling ok about that decision. I mean, who was ever going to read this list anyway, right?
Then Lauren asked who wanted to read first. She nominated the person to her left and said that we would go around the circle from there.
Eek. Not only did you want me to write a (moderately) brave list. Now you wanted me to READ and SHARE a (moderately) brave list. At previous Wilder retreats, there was sharing involved as I had read my writing to my small group. But reading to the broader group had been completely voluntary. I had never volunteered. I knew Wilder Lab would involve more sharing aloud (I wasn’t sure how I felt about that), but I figured there would be at least a few warm-up exercises or something. I had figured wrong.
When it was my turn—I read my list out loud.
I survived.
Over the course of the weekend, I not only survived, but grew into appreciating the freedom of sharing brave words without guardedness. It’s a sacred space when others trust you with their brave stories and in doing so, provide you with a powerful invitation to share your own.
Observation #2:
Often my writing pieces that hit on something most vulnerable to me ended up being the pieces I felt most ok sharing.
At Wilder Lab, all writing was an invitation/expectation that everyone would share with the whole group. You did have the option to “pass” — but as Lauren explained, generally, the reason people “pass” is either because 1.) they think the writing is not good enough or 2.) the writing feels too vulnerable.
I experienced how both of those reasons were really the primary reasons TO share. Sharing writing that you don’t feel is your best sometimes speaks to others in a way that you wouldn’t expect. And your most vulnerable writing is often the writing that contains the most “heat” and has the most potential to deeply connect with someone else.
One of my favorite podcasts is “On Being.” In a recent interview with Jericho Brown, the host, Krista Tippett, remarked—”the more authentically and deeply we can speak from our own particular experience, we speak to the particular experiences of others. [When] we say universal things, they don’t speak to the particular experiences of others.”
Reading aloud—and witnessing what others read—made me experience this viscerally. My sharing vague observations about the human experience didn’t feel like sharing anything at all. Sharing something specific about my own personal experience—even if it was a painful experience—felt the most transformative for me and held the most potential to connect with someone else at a human level.
Observation #3:
There is deep power to sharing your experiences, knowing they will be met without judgement.
The beauty about sharing at Wilder, is that no matter what words you put out into the ether, no one can respond—other than saying “thank you.” If you read something vapid with vague observations about life—all anyone can respond with is “thank you.” Similarly, if you share something vulnerable—all anyone can respond with is “thank you.”
It's tremendously freeing.
Usually in social situations, when someone shares, there is a pressure to respond or relate. Or if you are sharing, you are concerned that people won’t see things the same way or will respond with judgement. We often are generating our own responses without really listening.
At Wilder, there is freedom to share without worrying about judgment. And freedom to be absorbed in listening without the expectation of a response.
At the end of the retreat, all of the participants shared embraces with one another.
When I shared an appreciative embrace with Lauren, she said “You are really finding your voice.”
To which I replied - “thank you.” **
**actually, I really replied “I’m getting there.” But I really should have just said “thank you.” :)
Thanks Lauren!
Observation #4:
The primary theme that emerged for me personally was INSTINCT.
On the final morning of Wilder Lab, Lauren shared a poem “How to Pray” by Annelyse Gelman. She then invited us to 12 minutes of writing using the prompt of “Let this be the year of….”
For 12 minutes, I wrote whatever came to mind.
Prompt: Let this be the year of….
Me:
Let this be the year of mischief.
Let this be the year of saying the thing you want to say
instead of spending days turning over what you wish you would have said.
Let this be the year of eliminating “shoulds”
and replacing with “wants”.
Let this be the year of first instincts—
of throwing away that thing in your closet that you don’t like
even though it’s never been worn.
Let this be the year of wanting what you want
and wanting to want.
Let this be the year of occasionally laughing
at the things that make you feel guilty.
Let this be the year of camping in the backyard
and messes left occasionally
like color on a blank slate.
Let this be the year of desire—
of being with the people who light you up
even if texts go unreturned to those that don’t.
Let this be the year of ease when it’s needed
and extremes when they give you life.
Let this be the year when you allow aloneness
when the soul craves it
without worry to those that leaves out.
Let this be the year of belonging
first and foremost to myself.
Let this be the year of staying when it gets hard
so that the muscle is alive for when there is joy.
Let this be the year of following the crumbs of want
without knowing where they lead.
Let this be the year of saying no
to those pursuits and people that don’t deserve you
so that it can also be the year of saying yes to those that do.
Let this be the year that discipline and ease coincide
to bring results and dreams.
Let this be the year of defining only for me
with less worry of anyone else’s definition.
Let this be the year of instinct.
Let this be the year of instinct.
Let this be the year of instinct.
Let this be the year of following the muscle of instinct
in small and immediate circumstances
so that I can better listen to the voice of instinct
in broad and unfolding passions.
Let this be the year of voice, of agency, of choice.
Let this be the year of joy.
….
For 12 minutes I continued without letting the pen stop.
One line grabbed me and coerced me to repeat it:
let this be the year of instinct
let this be the year of instinct
let this be the year of instinct
And in a nutshell, that’s what Wilder Lab was about to me.
Instinct.
I’ve become pretty hard-wired to do what needs to be done and what people need me to do in order to “do the right thing”. In some ways, I’ve lost my instinct for instinct. It’s like someone could ask me:— “Amy, does that sound fun?” And I’d think-- “I’m not sure. Let me make a pros and cons list and get back to you.”
Like is it that hard to just say if it sounds fun or not?
And while I think it’s ok to need space to make good decisions, I also think instinct is a muscle that needs practice. Especially as we gain bigger responsibilities and deeper love for those outside of ourselves— which can add complicating layers to our immediate instinctual responses. In some ways, instinct is a balancing act with sustaining love and a broader desire to make an impact. The overwhelmingly instinctual love one has for their own child, as an example, is often followed not by pure instinct, but by the sacrifice of love that shows up in changing diapers and functioning on little sleep during early months of parenthood. Similarly, in running, when the instinct to quit during a marathon is over-ridden by the desire to earn the accomplishment of finishing.
This morning, I found myself writing about being frustrated that I couldn’t make an instinctual decision about something. I decided to re-frame that thought. Instead of responding with judgement, what if I instead honored the many ways that I know how to show up and do hard things? Wouldn’t I rather have an invitation to instinct vs. being someone who followed every urge of impulse but didn’t know how to do hard things?
Re-connecting with instinct sounds wilder. And that is a very, very good thing.
Here’s to instinct.
xo,
Amy
i offered my instinct
as my words
that were
read.
heard.
witnessed.
held.
their response was
not in words
but as nodded thanks
and the collective bravery
that emerged
through a
profound shared
experience.