Retreat vs. Refuge
I confess there have been moments, in the overwhelm of life, that I have wished for a cave.
Cave of the Winds
“If I could just have a bit of quiet stillness,” I’d think, “An unreachable cave where my only job was to sit in the dark, then I’d really be able to reset.”
But then, visiting family and bumping around Colorado last week, I visited an actual cave. One with dark chambers and stalactites hanging from the ceilings and strange, otherworldly mineral formations (also, tour guides and a gift shop just outside).
It was thrilling to walk (and crawl) through the place, but it turns out I do not actually want to live in a cave. As an introvert with chronic illness, it’s not infrequent for me to crave a retreat, but what actually sustains me is refuge.
And this distinction - between retreat and refuge - feels important for tender-hearted folks to explore, lest we accidentally walk around thinking that in order to receive real care we need to drop out of life. I’m hoping, just a bit, we might dispense with that altogether.
Retreat is a place to get away to: a cabin on the mountain, a spa, a cave. Imagine thick walls and no interferences, away from the requirements of life. If you’ve experienced a getaway like this, you know it can be divine as well as…fragile. It is, after all, temporary; you’ve left regular life to receive its benefits (I will spare you my rant on the shortcomings of “self care” here, but - it is related).
Photo: Patrick Hendry, @worldsbetweenlines
I think of refuge, meanwhile, as a tent with the flaps open: the breeze comes through, there’s dirt on the floor, we can hear the sounds of life, just outside. Through refuge, we create shelter in the midst of messy life, an ongoing practice of residing in the self that does not bury or bypass our pain, grief, or loneliness; it does not wait for perfect conditions to return to ourselves.
Both retreat and refuge have their gifts, and from the outside they may look utterly indistinguishable. In December, when I pulled off the quadruple crown of flu, Covid, minor surgery, and invasive procedure, I absolutely retreated, closed the tent flaps, and turned out the lights. But once I was out of the acute phase, I could feel the pulse of something larger. I was still bed-bound, just - not quite so closed off.
And closed off is where retreat becomes airless. Because if we draw back from every conversation / situation /experience that isn’t comfortable, or wait endlessly for conditions to be exactly right, we miss opportunities for real transformation and growth (asterisk here: in times of overwhelm or danger, retreat may be exactly what we need, and the best choice available).
How we cultivate refuge can be a rich exploration. Back from the beautiful desert, sea-level feels like refuge. Also daily writing, honest conversation, the warm tea in my hand. And if this sounds a bit like locating what resources us without bypassing or denying our aches? Yes, exactly.
A final anecdote to hold in your pocket: I once heard the story of a meditation workshop at which a large construction project outside was making all kinds of noise. “Ugh!” cried the meditators, “How are we supposed to cultivate calm with all that racket?” To which the teacher replied, “What do you think I pay them for?”
Online and via our newsletter, I asked readers the question What helps you locate refuge in your own life? They shared a treasure trove! Excerpts below, but feel free to be in touch if there’s more you’d like to add.
The new neighborhood we’re moving to. Potlucks. Watering my garden. My art. A breeze on my face. Soil in my hands. Dancing so completely that everyone disappears. When I can sit quietly and observe my husband connecting with our kids. Can refuge be a verb? I am refuging now, something like that. Prayer. Full permission to be as silly or as quiet as I feel in that moment. Definitely a nap. Community. The moments when I have just completed a task or job and am able to take a beat to feel content. A hot bath and maybe a "corny" Readers Digest that a neighbor gave me. A conversation that takes a vulnerable shift down to the heart. Hanging the laundry on the line and taking a full breath. Always a walk alone in the woods. A quiet corner to eat my sandwich.