NOTE TO READERS: My weekly Substack posts go out each Saturday. I wrapped and recorded this post about the ordeal of getting a new passport more than a week ago but feel moved to include some last-minute additions before sending it off to you.
I’m writing this extra note to you on Friday, my fifth day teaching a six-day writing retreat, Flourishing as We Age, overlooking the beach in Santa Cruz, California. I’ve been posting daily updates from the retreat in Substack Notes and decided to extend my original post to include those Notes, tucked just underneath the original post.
Many of you only receive my posts through email and aren’t on the Substack app, so you wouldn’t even know these Notes existed. So most of you have not read them.
Rereading both my original post and the Notes I’ve penned this week, I’m struck by how different in tone they are. My retreat Notes are far more uplifting and positive than the original essay below.
The difference?I’m on retreat and have had five full days away from the news.
I thought you enjoy learning what life is like inside the sacred container of a writing retreat. I think these added notes will help transport you there.
I’m also including the Note I just wrote for Mother’s Day weekend because I think my mother and I have one of the most inspiring Mother’s Day stories out there. And the picture of us is one of the most beautiful portraits of love I’ve ever seen.
There’s just one thing—I’m not at home so I can’t record new audio for this post. The original post is recorded in my voice, but the new material won’t be. So just listen to the audio, then just scroll down to savor the rest on the page.
Now here’s the original post, the one I composed more than a week ago:
I didn’t get my first passport until I was forty. While my friends traveled around the world and hitchhiked through Europe, I considered travel a waste of my limited resources—"Why go on a trip?” I thought. “I’ll have nothing to show for it.” If I ever had money to spare, I spent it on a bookcase or a soup pot—things that would last.
I clearly didn’t understand travel.
My first international trip was with my 13-year-old daughter, a budding Francophile who desperately wanted to go to France. We marveled at the ancient heaps of bones deep in underground catacombs, savored duck cooked on hot stones in Uzès, relished the brilliant colors of Monet’s garden.
After that mother-daughter journey, I got hooked on travel. In the decades that followed, I made up for lost time, exploring Europe, Asia, Mexico, South America, the Middle East.
I loved the person I became when I traveled. The controlled list-maker disappeared, and the sensual, creative, spontaneous adventurer took her place. I reveled in the moment, savored every new experience, exalting in wonder, pleasure, curiosity, joy.
Some of my favorite travel adventures
I loved the person I became when I traveled. The controlled list-maker disappeared, and the sensual, creative, spontaneous adventurer took her place. I reveled in the moment, savored every new experience, exalting in wonder, pleasure, curiosity, joy.
Thirteen years ago, I started leading writing tours around the world—to Bali, Scotland, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Greece, Peru, Tuscany, hiking the Camino de Santiago in Spain.
I figured out how to travel and get paid for it.
The last time I renewed my passport, I opted for the double-sized version because I’d filled up the one before that.
That big fat blue US passport expires a year from now.
When Trump returned to power with his totalitarian aspirations, I researched the earliest possible date I could renew my passport and put the date on my calendar.
Threat was in the air.
How quickly might things change? Could things get so bad that I’d need to leave my country? If it came to that, would I recognize the moment? Could I leave? Would I? Or would I stay and fight?
Last week, that reminder popped up in my calendar—the first day I was eligible to renew my passport.
This task, one previously filled only with joyous anticipation, rose to the top of my to-do list. I wanted to renew my passport before the staff at the passport office was gutted.
Before it was too late.
MyTravelGov informed me that once I submitted my application, my current passport would become void. My next international trip—leading a tour in Bali—wasn’t until August, but knowing I’d be without a passport didn’t feel good.
But I pressed on.
This task, one previously filled only with joyous anticipation, rose to the top of my to-do list. I wanted to renew my passport before the staff at the passport office was gutted. Before it was too late.
I drove to my local Bay Photo Lab for a new digital passport photo. When I got home, I hopped on the federal website to fill out the form.
As I typed in my name, I couldn’t stop thinking, Who will have access to my data and what will they do with it?
As I continued filling out the form, I was acutely aware of my privilege: white, born in the US, US citizen, never had a name change, same address for 25 years.
But what if I was a naturalized citizen? An immigrant?
What if I was trans? Trapped in a country determined to destroy me?
When the form asked for my social security number, I hesitated but I did not stop.
Whatever lists there are of possible dissidents, my name is sure to be on it already.
But the final question did stop me: Who did I want as my emergency contact? If I was in plane crash or a coma overseas, who should be contacted?
I typed in my wife’s name. Her phone number. If anything happened to me while I was traveling, I’d want her to be notified.
A toggle switch asked me to identify the nature of our relationship: friend, spouse, child, parent, other family member. I hesitated.
As a white privileged American, I’d never hesitated before. But if the Christian nationalists in power have their way, I will definitely become a target. We will become be a target.
A toggle switch asked me to identify the nature of our relationship: friend, spouse, child, parent, other family member. I hesitated. As a white privileged American, I’d never hesitated before.
Ugly scenarios played out in my head:
If I click spouse, will I be singled out at the border? Will ICE show up at my house someday because I’ve stated I’m queer on a federal form?
I stared at the screen, the blinking cursor.
I probably shouldn’t click this box. I should try to fly under the radar.
But they already know I’m queer. I’ve been out as a lesbian in public for decades.
This is our proud reality:
We’ve been together for 35 years. We file joint taxes. We’re married. We’ve raised three children together. Share three grandchildren. We’ve buried parents. Cared for a parent with dementia. Been through cancer. Everyone who knows and loves us, loves us as a lesbian couple.
I thought about all the gay pride marches I’ve attended. The campaigns I’ve fought in to preserve and extend our rights.
I refuse to erase myself out of fear.
I reached for my laptop, but my fingers froze, hovering over the keyboard.
Am I being brave or am I being foolish?
I closed my eyes, breathed in, brought my awareness down into my belly. I took another breath. And another. I got quiet inside. That’s where I found my clarity. That’s where I found my courage.
Fuck it. I’m not going back in the closet for them.
I clicked “spouse.”
Today, I’m going to give you two prompts to choose from or you can do both. These prompts can be used for writing, discussion, or personal reflection.
PROMPTS:
Describe the moment you realized you were living in a different world than the one you were inhabiting before.
Tell me about a choice or decision that’s fraught for you right now.
As always, I invite you to share your thoughts or excerpts from your writing in the comments.
And remember, every time you click the heart, leave a comment or share a post, you’re making it easier for new readers to discover The Writer’s Journey.
Inside a Sacred Writing Retreat: Flourishing as We Age
Beginning last Monday, I’ve been teaching a six-day in-person writing retreat, Flourishing as We Age. I’ve been leading writing retreats for a couple of decades now, but this was the first one with this particular focus.
Here’s a taste of what that journey has been:
May 5: Preparing to Enter Sacred Space
It’s 5:00 AM and today is the first day of a 6-day writing retreat. Twenty-five women, aged late fifties to early nineties will be gathering at a beautiful retreat center at the beach in Santa Cruz, California for a deep dive into our lives. As I sit in my pajamas in my darkened bedroom, preparing to rise for a cup of English Breakfast tea and my final breakfast at home, I am filled with awe at being trusted like this with the hearts and souls of the people who have yes to this intimate journey of true words shared in safe community.
This particular retreat has been in the planning for a couple of years now. I’ve been thinking about teaching it for more than a decade but just wasn’t old or seasoned enough. Now I am ready, and with my three co-teachers, Evelyn Hall, Karyn Bristol and Gail Warner, will be leaving the world behind (thank God!) for the next six days to create a container of sacred time and place, where words and deep listening are the currency of connection.
Whenever I teach a writing retreat, it’s my habit to overprepare. My “curriculum” notes are more than a hundred pages, but when I walk into that room and don the cloak of facilitator, I hold my plan loosely, often letting it go entirely, to meet what is happening in the moment. Something far more elemental and magic takes place. The “small l” Laura disappears, I drop down, and I’m able to draw on a larger wisdom that is far more responsive than I could ever be. All the months and weeks of preparation become mulch to provide what my students need in the moment.
There’s nothing like know that you are completely aligned with your purpose, wholeheartedly doing what you do best. That’s how I feel when I teach a writing retreat, and I’m so grateful for the opportunity to serve in this way.
May 6: RETURNING TO MYSELF
Six days without the news is going to save my life. Well, maybe not my life, but definitely my sanity.
I just finished leading the opening night of Flourishing as We Age. In setting the retreat groundrules tonight, I told the group that we were going to create a news-free zone: no casual conversation about politics or current events—not in the dining room, not in the hallways, nowhere it could be overheard. I asked the group to honor the intention of those who want to use our retreat to step away from the constant drumbeat of demoralizing, terrible news. “If your feelings about what’s happening in the world comes up in your writing,” I told them, “we’ll welcome it there, because we’re creating a safe container to write anything, but let’s keep in out of our daily conversations.”
Tonight, when I came up to bed, I felt incredibly relieved to buck my compulsion to pick up my phone to read the litany of terrible things that probably happened today. For the rest of this week, as I hold space for others’ deep writing and inner work, I don’t need to track them.
“If your feelings about what’s happening in the world comes up in your writing,” I told them, “we’ll welcome it there, because we’re creating a safe container to write anything, but let’s keep in out of our daily conversations.”
And in letting go of my need to know,I could feel my whole self unwinding from anger, vigilance and grief, relaxing instead, entering sacred space.
This was the poem I closed tonight’s session with, setting the tone for what we will be focusing on for the next six days, because if we don’t take the time to tend to our own hearts, what good can we be to anyone?
The Most Important Thing
by Julie Fehrenbacher
I am making a home inside myself. A shelter of kindness where everything is forgiven, everything allowed—a quiet patch of sunlight to stretch out without hurry, where all that has been banished and buried is welcomed, spoken, listened to—released. A fiercely friendly place I can claim as my very own. I am throwing arms open to the whole of myself—especially the fearful, fault-finding, falling apart, unfinished parts, knowing every seed and weed, every drop of rain, has made the soil richer. I will light a candle, pour a hot cup of tea, gather around the warmth of my own blazing fire. I will howl if I want to, knowing this flame can burn through any perceived problem, any prescribed perfectionism, any lying limitation, every heavy thing. I am making a home inside myself where grace blooms in grand and glorious abundance, a shelter of kindness that grows all the truest things. I whisper hallelujah to the friendly sky. Watch now as I burst into blossom.
May 7: FOUR QUESTIONS TO ANSWER WHEN YOU’RE FEELING LOW
In many shamanic societies, if you came to a medicine person complaining of being disheartened, dispirited, or depressed, they’d ask these questions:
When did you stop dancing?
When did you stop singing?
When did you stop being enchanted by stories?
When did you stop being comforted by the sweet territory of silence?
--Gabrielle Roth
After lunch, we filed back into our meeting room for the afternoon session, and my co-leader Evelyn Hall put on some great dancing music. Pretty soon the center of our circle was filled with jubilant, dancing women between 57 and 91 years old.
We’d spent the morning writing and talking about hard things and now we were up on our feet moving. Those who couldn’t dance were swaying to the music.
It is the sign of a mature human to be able to hold grief and joy simultaneously.
The women at this retreat definitely qualify—that’s what it means to flourish as we age.
May 8: THE RUSSIAN NESTING DOLL OF WOMEN INSIDE ME
We in the heart of this retreat.
This morning, I led the group through a life review, one of the core tasks of aging. We began with a guided meditation revisiting each decade of their lives, starting in childhood and going all the way up through 80 and beyond.
For each decade, I asked a series of questions. I had them picture themselves at a given age, imaging what they were wearing, the shoes on their feet, their hairdos. I had them remember what was happening in the world at that time, where they lived, who their people were, how they spent their days and nights. I asked what they feared and what, in each decade, brought them joy.
If people hadn’t reached a particular age yet, I had them imagine who they hoped to become.
At the end of each decade, I told them, “Hold this girl/young woman/woman in your mind’s eye and send her love, compassion, and blessings.”
And then we moved on to the next decade.
When we’d completed the whole timeline, I had people pull out their notebooks, choose one of their former or future selves to converse with on the page. And they wrote out a dialogue between their two selves, getting to know each other, sharing wisdom, compassion and forgiveness.
We spent the entire morning doing this exercise.
The sharing afterwards was powerful and profound. What an exceptional group of women are gathered here.
Yesterday was the fourth day of our retreat. Our theme for the morning was grief and gratitude—two things we must learn to encompass simultaneously as we age.
I introduced our first prompt by reading this passage from Mary Pipher’s book, Women Rowing North:
“We become aware that we may be doing some things for the last time. We visit our great aunt in her nineties. We bid goodbye to a friend who is moving to Florida. We complete the ten-mile hike up a mountain and suspect we won’t do it again. These last moments are poignant.”
And then I gave the prompt, “Tell me about something you did for the last time.”
The room filled with holy silence as pens scratched on notebooks, the only other sound the Pacific waves rolling in outside our window.
Women shared in small groups and then we read together. The sharing was poignant, at times humorous, always deeply touching.
There is nothing like being witnessed when you commit the deepest truth to the page, when your voice cracks as you read, and you’re held in love and complete acceptance.
This is the kind of healing the planet needs. For our core humanity to be seen, held, acknowledged.
After a break with scones and tea, we wrote about the flip side of loss: our deepening appreciation of the things that matter most: “Tell me about something that is more precious to you now than ever.”
So much love spilled out on the page.
I love crafting the perfect writing prompt for the moment, holding space for people on a journey of soulful, creative exploration.
There’s such palpable tenderness in the air as we move through these precious days of retreat. The outside world has faded, and we are deeply engaged in the work of communion with self and the building of sacred community.
I know we will return to our lives and this broken world renewed and rested, with invigorated purpose.
The images I’m sharing today are from our collective altar which has been growing all week with offerings from the group.
Finding the sacred
May 10: MOTHER’S DAY STORY
During the years my mother and I were estranged, I dreaded Mother’s Day. My mother always insisted on attention on her birthday and on Mother’s Day. It was very clear what she expected: accolades, expressions of love, and attention. My attention.
Before we stopped speaking, Mother’s Day was always a challenge for me, whether I was living under her roof or 3000 miles away in California—as far away as I could get without crossing an ocean. I hated Mother’s Day and the expectations that went with it.
And those were the “good” Mother’s Days.
When I was 28, I told my mother that her father had sexually abused me. She screamed at me and called me a liar, choosing her dead father over her living daughter.
That’s when the compelling, tumultuous thread between us finally snapped.
In the years that followed, the weeks leading up to Mother’s Day were filled with dread and anxiety. I anguished over not contacting her, certain I was a terrible daughter, but I kept my distance.
I needed that distance.
Because it was that very distance—what I called “a healing separation”—that enabled my real healing process to begin.
Because it was that very distance—what I called “a healing separation”—that enabled my real healing process to begin.
This happened 40 years ago. And in the decades that followed, my mother and I slowly found our way back into each other’s lives. Our process of reconciliation wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t neat. It was flawed, imperfect, and real. There were no violins playing in the background. No Hallmark cards. But we did it.
Finding our way to build a new relationship took grit and determination on both our parts.
Our process of reconciliation wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t neat. It was flawed, imperfect, and real.
At eighty, when her first signs of dementia were starting to show, my mother moved across the country to live in my town—and I became “her person” for the rest of her life.
I told the story of our journey from bitter estrangement to becoming her caregiver in my memoir, The Burning Light of Two Stars.
Our journey would not be right for everyone, but I am so grateful we ended up like this.
WRITE WITH LAURA
The work of my heart is to teach.
These are the writing workshops and retreats I’ve got coming up:
Flourishing as We Age: A Writing Retreat for Women at a beautiful oceanfront retreat center in Santa Cruz, California. Using story, deep listening, and ritual, learn to welcome change, build resilience and hold grief and gratitude simultaneously. June 1-7, 2026.
How to Write About What You Can’t Remember.Learn to transform scraps of memory into a rich written legacy. Five-week Master class meets on Zoom and will be recorded if you can’t attend all sessions live. Starts next week.
Weekly Writing Practice Class: This Wednesday class has met weekly for 25 years. We meet on Zoom, write to prompts, and share intimately in a sacred circle. Openings now.
I recently had to mail in my passport to renew as well, and I felt terrified as soon as I gave it up! Also unnerving because they made a mistake on my middle name But it was too late to submit a correction so I just had to submit a new application. I hope they approve it… Also let me know How are you getting paid to travel? Dream!
Laura, your post really resonates with me. My wife and I have been together since 2002, married in 2008. We’ve seen windows open and close, including the one that slammed shut right after we became legally married here in California, thanks to a ballot measure sponsored by haters and funded largely by out-of-state fanatics. She’s ex-military, and had to hide her identity in the ‘80s while serving in the army. Then, along came Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Things got better for gays in the military in the first two decades of this century, and now….POW! Trans folks are being aggressively hunted down and kicked out of the service. I, too, have had my share of wake-up calls. I went into teaching in 1995, having been out as a lesbian for 15 years. One day, the head of the science department in the school in which I taught approached me, told me we needed to talk. I was blindsided, thinking I’d messed up my grading or something. Nope, it was personal. She said she’d overheard two teen girls talking about me in the hallway, saying I was a lesbian. She said, “this is completely inappropriate.” What?! She thinks I, as a person, am inappropriate? And she uses teen gossip as her primary source?
That was my big, jarring, wake up call. The world wasn’t the same for me after that. Now, my concerns are more for others who are being caught in the twisting gears of Trump’s evil machine.
I recently had to mail in my passport to renew as well, and I felt terrified as soon as I gave it up! Also unnerving because they made a mistake on my middle name But it was too late to submit a correction so I just had to submit a new application. I hope they approve it… Also let me know How are you getting paid to travel? Dream!
Laura, your post really resonates with me. My wife and I have been together since 2002, married in 2008. We’ve seen windows open and close, including the one that slammed shut right after we became legally married here in California, thanks to a ballot measure sponsored by haters and funded largely by out-of-state fanatics. She’s ex-military, and had to hide her identity in the ‘80s while serving in the army. Then, along came Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Things got better for gays in the military in the first two decades of this century, and now….POW! Trans folks are being aggressively hunted down and kicked out of the service. I, too, have had my share of wake-up calls. I went into teaching in 1995, having been out as a lesbian for 15 years. One day, the head of the science department in the school in which I taught approached me, told me we needed to talk. I was blindsided, thinking I’d messed up my grading or something. Nope, it was personal. She said she’d overheard two teen girls talking about me in the hallway, saying I was a lesbian. She said, “this is completely inappropriate.” What?! She thinks I, as a person, am inappropriate? And she uses teen gossip as her primary source?
That was my big, jarring, wake up call. The world wasn’t the same for me after that. Now, my concerns are more for others who are being caught in the twisting gears of Trump’s evil machine.