Writing in the clouds
Our Wild Wonder retreat at the Mabel Dodge Luhan House in Taos, New Mexico
I just got home from our retreat in Taos, and my heart still feels full — tender, expanded, open. These retreats always change me in quiet ways I can’t yet name. Maybe it’s the air (that smells so incredibly good), the big skies, the company of wise and creative women, or the way stories seem to rise up out of the land itself. Whatever it is, it feels like medicine.
There was something that Laurie said during one of our Wild Writing sessions that I can’t stop thinking about. She said, “These poems are teaching us how to live.”
And that’s exactly what it felt like all week — these circles of women, dropping in and sharing their stories of loss, of beauty, of resilience. Each one was like a breadcrumb, showing me what it means to live a full, brave, and open-hearted life.
Taos has this way of heightening everything. It’s like we were writing in the clouds. You’re so attuned to the sky there — the endless stretch of horizon, the watercolor sunsets, the sudden drama of clouds rolling over the mesa, and the brilliant constellations at night. You can’t help but feel connected — to the sky, to the land, and to something greater that’s always trying to speak to you.
And then there’s the Mabel Dodge Luhan House. With its own history and magic. A place that housed the likes of Georgia O’Keeffe, D. H. Lawrence, Willa Cather, Ansel Adams and so many more. It was a cultural hub and salon for writers and artists in the early 20th century. And we feel it every time we gather groups there!
Taos (or maybe the Mabel Dodge) always delivers dreams to me — the kind that feel like messages. This time, I dreamed of my mother who passed in January. I was watching her from a window in one of our old houses. She was in the garage, painting on a giant canvas, the colors impossibly vivid — otherworldly. It wasn’t just the beauty of what she was creating that undid me. It was what it meant.
When I told Laurie about the dream the next morning, I started to cry — one of the first times I’ve wept since my mom passed. Through my tears, I said, “This is what I always wanted for her — this kind of joy, this kind of expression.”
Later that week, I made a SoulCollage® card for her — something I’d been resisting for almost a year. I’d even tucked a black-and-white photocopy of an old photo of her into my supplies months ago, then forgotten it completely. But during the retreat, as I sorted through images, it suddenly appeared — as if it had been waiting for me all along.
It must be time to make that card, I thought.
When I finally met the card and let it speak to me, it felt like a love letter from her. The message that came through was simple and true:
“Now I can love you in the way I always wanted to love you.”
And just like that, something in me softened. Another layer of grief moved. And I felt the sky open again.
Oh wow, Andrea. This is so beautiful in so many ways. Thank you.
Gorgeous, gorgeous, all kinds of gorgeous.