You Belong Here: Thoughts on Fear, Community, and Overcoming
written by Elizabeth Houseman and edited by Kimberly Kralovic
You Belong Here: Thoughts on Fear, Community, and Overcoming
When I packed my bag for the Cultivate Retreat, I made sure to bring shorts (for hiking the nearby mountains), a dress (to wear to the professional headshot Mariana Herrera Mosli had so kindly gifted attendees), my pill organizer (containing my various chronic illness treatments), and, against my own will, I packed my nerves (in case of rejection).
My chest was tight as I examined and re-examined my suitcase. I was totally prepared, worries and all. There were eleven hours of driving between my little family’s home and Winston-Salem, North Carolina where the retreat was, so I had plenty of time to go over every single worst-case scenario.
Just past midnight, the journey began.
As we cruised through Indiana's brown, flat fields, I told myself that I'd sit with Sarah Steele—the one person I already knew in person—and keep to myself. Sarah is so friendly. She could cover for me.
Driving through the mountainous land in Virginia, I pictured trying to talk to the people I knew through Zoom Poetry Hours and Instagram—Bre, Kristine, Matt—and felt crushed by the thought that maybe we only got along through the screen. My ears would pop as the road curved up a mountain and then again when the road angled down.
I shifted uncomfortably from my exploding ears and the thought of meeting "my internet friends." Maybe things would be weird in person? After all, social interactions are a lot easier when everyone has a mute button!
My ears continued to pop as my thoughts continued to swirl.
But—we drove on.
When we got to our hotel in North Carolina, and as I ironed my dress for the first day of the Cultivate Retreat, I thought about not going. The iron hissed as I shifted it over my wrinkly pink sundress. I considered staying with my husband and son at the hotel. We could swim in the nose-hair-burning chlorine-treated pool and relax.
It would be safer.
It would be easier.
I hadn't driven eleven hours from Michigan for safety, though.
Arriving at the Reynolda Village's Barn—a clean white building, aptly named, that I'd daydreamed about ever since Kimberly revealed the venue—came with a new sort of terror.
I stopped dead at its double glass doors. Inside, I could see my friend Sarah Steele, editor at TWBTO, talking to two women. I was already sweating, and it wasn't just because of the warm weather. I reconsidered the “back-out” plan I concocted in Indiana.
It would certainly be easy. But would it be satisfactory?
Photo credit: Bethy Houseman
As I often do when immobilized by fear, I forced my feet forward with power, like I would if I was pulling them out of wet cement. I pushed the glass doors open, and sweet, merciful air conditioning replaced North Carolina's damp heat. For a moment, just long enough, that wall of cold air distracted me from my anxiety.
A few sets of eyes met mine as I looked around the room. Instead of those gazes turning away, though, they lit up. Person by person, friend by friend, I could dismiss those "what if" scenarios. The tension I'd been holding in my chest since I packed my suitcase loosened. An unexpected smile swept across my face.
Photo credit: Bethy Houseman
Before the first session even started, I'd gotten what I'd been looking for at the Cultivate Retreat. I'd found community.
This wasn't just any community, though. There was warmth, acceptance, encouragement, and art. The Makers Market filled the room with beautifully framed poetry, watercolor paintings, vases, and pages of gorgeous poetry books. The speakers generously brought us wisdom, pain, healing, and everything in between.
Caroline Greb spoke on cultivating an artist's life. She told us about the value of beauty and gave practical advice on how to find it in your everyday life. "Look, look, look for a very long time," she said. (As an aside: Take this quote to heart. What a change it makes.)
Matthew Nash lectured on cultivating soul care. Almost like a group therapy session, he led us in a lectio divina—a contemplative scripture reading. He gently advised us to look deeply into ourselves and see beyond the surface level. I walked away from Matthew's session feeling renewed.
Heather Lobe Johnson touched me personally in her session on cultivating creativity even in the darkness. Lupus, chronic pain, mental illness, inexplicable fatigue, and more leave me seemingly without light on a regular basis. But as I listened to Heather's wisdom on how to rise from the ashes, I felt something quiet rest on my heart. Only afterward did I realize it was the feeling of being seen and the soft sensation of being known.
Kimberly Phinney, the Wounded Healer herself in my mind, spoke to every one of us. She educated and empowered us. She took her pain, holding it out to us earnestly and honestly, and made something beautiful out of it. Through God's grace, she brought us to the Cultivate Retreat as founder and believer. The room was silent while she spoke. We were captivated. The woman holds such wisdom.
On the morning of day two, some of us had risen early to meet in the Reynolda Village gardens, a carefully manicured, gorgeously kept space that sprawled a short walk behind The Barn. Matthew Nash led us in a brief devotion and sent us to reflect among the flowers.
Kim Butler, writer and business owner, chats with Ashley Whittemore, presenter and editor at TWBTO. Photo credit: Bethy Houseman
The garden was overflowing but not overwhelming. I wandered among the colors and textures—long lily petals dusted with pollen, zinnias with spider webs carefully stretched between their stems, purple coneflowers that reminded me of home but didn’t exactly make me miss it … because I was happy here.
The bees that floated by had no interest in me despite my bright clothing and perfume. They had more than enough material to explore in the garden. Walking through it was like wandering inside a painting—or Heaven. Those gardens were undeniably crafted with care. They were somebody’s art.
Photo credit: Bethy Houseman
I found myself with the water lilies and tadpoles. They were transforming. Would it be cliche to say that I felt like I was transforming there, too? Being so welcomed by these people felt different, and shifting away from the anxiety was good. I wonder if that's how tadpoles feel when they lose their tail—like they've finally let go of an ingrained part of themselves that has been holding them back.
Photo credit: Bethy Houseman
The weekend continued with Sarah Steele—who I promise I had not clung to, though I was delighted to chat with her when our paths did cross—as she revealed the importance of community for the artist. I watched everyone lean over their notebooks to jot down her words when she told us this: "Jesus Christ is a sufficient enough connection for an entire relationship."
In a show of pure artistry, Edward Holmes performed poem after poem on cultivating hope. He blessed us with his art, and with every bobbing head and every soft “yes” I heard murmured around the room, we were enriched. (Please, please listen to Edward on Spotify. You will be enriched there as well.)
Edward Holmes, poet, podcaster, and contributor for TWBTO, performs his signature spoken word piece, “I Have Hope.” Photo credit: Bethy Houseman
Kelly Meagher and Ashley Whittmore presented the art of storytelling and telling our stories while they are still in progress. This may be where I scribbled my messiest notes, writing down the different places your writing can come from (thank you for the breakthrough, Kelly!) and quote after quote by Ashley. Admittedly, these notes are hard for me to read, but they are rich with valuable advice from these two gifted writers.
Makers and Mystics founder Stephen Roach closed the lecturers out. Without even a slideshow or set of guided notes—my anxiety could never—he lectured on the meaning of our art, the importance of what we communicate, how to stay genuine, and more. It was transformative. And I've never seen a group of writers move as swiftly as when he dismissed us and opened his merch table where his books were for sale. Judging by that rush, I do believe he sold more than a few.
We finished the weekend with an open mic. Gifted artist after gifted artist held the mic and blessed the crowd with their artwork. Talent was packed into the building like I had never experienced. God had done incredible work there.
Between all of this, there was heartfelt praise and worship, Q&A sessions, lunches, dinners, and breaks to socialize. I've never been in a group where I felt like I could talk. I knew that not only could I talk to anyone, but I could talk to everyone.
Whenever I thought my cup was finally full, I found another one-of-a-kind piece of art, friend, or poem that filled me more.
As the Cultivate Retreat ended, I felt like I'd left this Earth behind. By the goodness of God, it seemed all of these creatives had pulled together a little chunk of Heaven and settled it inside The Barn.
I felt rejuvenated. I felt accepted.
The going back was hard, though. When I met with my therapist the next week, I told her this: "I thought I'd want it back because it was North Carolina and I was on vacation, but it's even harder because I want the people back. They made me feel accepted, and I don't feel that way with the people at home." It was a harsh truth, but those are the truths that therapy and art are there to uncover and heal.
If you read this and think, "Wow, I wish I could have been there for that," please follow Kimberly on Instagram: @thewayback2ourselves. You will also find a beautiful community there, albeit a virtual one most days.
You can also purchase the recorded lectures here. And trust me; this is absolutely worth the investment!
There's even talk of another The Way Back to Ourselves retreat next year! Unlike before, I feel excitement instead of anxiety. I look forward to it instead of creating a dozen plans and backup plans.
I feel hope.
But most of all, I feel like I belong. I belong as an artist, I belong as a poet, I belong as a believer, I belong as a person, and I belong as myself. And I promise you—you belong here, too.
YOU BELONG HERE
by Bethy Houseman
“You belong here,”
are the words they echo
to us all.
When I tell you
I have never believed
that I fit anywhere,
that I was not designed
for this life
or for this Earth
or for these people,
you must believe me.
I did not have a home
for my messy mind
or sullen soul.
How could they tell me
this is where I should be?
But here I am,
embraced for who I am,
and the art that I create,
and the messy way that I exist
on—to me—this foreign planet.
For a moment, I believe it.
I belong here.
I do.
GET INVOLVED with The Way Back to Ourselves and GROW as a writer and creative:
Grow as a writer and create community with The Poetry Cohort, taught by Kimberly Phinney and Heather Lobe Johson. Learn more here:
Wish you were at The Cultivate Retreat? You can purchase The Cultivate Retreat on-demand recordings here:
Need a writing course on your own terms and for an affordable price? Grab Kimberly Phinney’s writing course, How to Grow Your Writing Life. Kimberly is a published author, an English professor, and the founder of The Way Back to Ourselves. Learn more here: How to Grow Your Writing Life Course by Kimberly Phinney — THE WAY BACK TO OURSELVES (thewayback2ourselves.com)
Photo credit: Mariana Mosli and Kimberly Phinney
ELIZABETH HOUSEMAN
Elizabeth Houseman is a reader, writer, Christian, mother, and wife, living in coldhearted Michigan. She has work featured in La Piccioletta Barca, Critical Read, The Way Back to Ourselves, and elsewhere. When she isn’t obsessively writing, she works as a freelance photographer. You can find her on Instagram and Threads at @bethyhouseman.