The sunrises are different in Spring. There isn't the moody intensity of colour, the lingering hues as the sun decides to poke itself out from behind the sea. It's like it's in a rush;has somewhere to go, needs to be seen - it's not the meandering sunrises of Winter, which I've watched and savoured, wrapped in pyjamas with a coffee in my hand. The kitchen isn't open yet. I don't have a coffee, but the need to watch the sunrise is greater than the need to lie in what was one a confessional, on a narrow, but very comfortable single bed, pondering the growing light entering from behind the blind.
I am on retreat, and I love that you get to do things like watch the sunrise. Living inner city, I rarely get to see the sun rise, and set, over water. Sure, I get to occassionally watch the balloons fly over the city, but my windows are West facing where the sunrise is an Or wake to the sound of the waves crashing onto the Great Ocean Road. Or hang out in my pyjamas as the wind toussles my hair, not caring that I'll have a hell of a time brushing out the knots. Sure, I could do without the sticky flies, which appear to be abundant, but we are in nature, and this is what happens. And sure, the alpacas in the adjacent paddock will probably come and try and bite as we try to make friends, but they are alpacas and that is in their nature. It's all cool.
All I feel is peace.
This retreat is a little different from the other two I've been on. For one, we have to wear masks inside when writing. And there are fewer people here, but that only adds to the intimacy of the weekend.
But I am with my tribe.
As a loner and weirdo, I seldom feel at peace with people. It's not the case here.
On my first retreat in 2019, it was like I was the new kid in school. Knowing nobody, I held back. It took the weekend, and the 80s Rock Quiz held on Saturday night to really bring me out of my shell. I got to have the school social I never got to have. Plus, I'm pretty good at 80's music trivia. I've got two coffee mugs to prove it.
Now, I happily drive down here, letting the car negotiate the undulations in the road, stopping for a dirty Maccas in Geelong, both on the way down and back, as this is part of the ritual. Two hours later, I land at the old monsastery. My things are depoosited in my cell before joining the growing group on the lawn, glass of wine in my hand, maybe a sneaky drag on a pilfered cigarette - not something I do anywhere else, not something I do at home. It's part of the growing ritual base.
But I am with my tribe, and that is the best thing of all.
When I describe the people who come to these retreats, I normally mention describe the women who come here as a mob of bolshie, left leaning iconoclasts who swear quite a bit. But they're more than this. Much more. There is a beating heart bigger than the sun. Women who care, who love, who nurture, who write.
They're fucking awesome.
And they are my tribe.
Well, there goes my peace and quiet. Anthony has just cranked up the music in the chapel for "Morning Glory." We dance in the chapel in the morning. The rules are that you don't brush your hair, clean your teeth or get out of your pyjamas. Just come and dance. Seriously, when was the last time you danced with other people, in your PJs at 7.30 in the morning?
It's fucking awesome.
ABBA has come on.
It's time for me to sign off and dance.
Today's song:
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