Five years ago, soon after I had left Afghanistan, I went on retreat at Esalen with Seane Corn, Hala Khouri and Suzanne Sterling of Off the Mat, Into the World. During my week in Big Sur – as I breathed (and sometimes cried) my way through yoga classes, soaked in the gorgeous outdoor natural hot pools and sat in the garden watching butterflies flit between rows of kale I would soon be eating – I set the course of the life I’m now living.

This year I get to create that kind of space for a small group of women. Women – like me – who have profoundly important work to do in the world, and who sometimes need to take a break, put on the brakes, refresh their own reserves of creative inspiration (and rest) and reset their compasses to due north. I would love to have you join us to retreat, rest and reset your direction for 2013 and the years to come. I only have room left for 6 people so it really will be an intimate affair.

Who is this for?

This retreat is for women like me (and maybe like you?).

We understand the value and importance of taking care of ourselves. We know how good we feel when we eat healthy food, do some yoga, and take time to lie in the sun and read a book. We know we are more creative when we have more rest, and that we are a more compassionate and intuitive teacher/mother/friend when we get time just for ourselves.

We know we can only do our best work in the world, and make a difference in the lives of the people we care about, when we take time to care for and nourish ourselves.

YET, life is so very, very full that we find ourselves rushing from day to day with a gnawing sense that something is getting away from us, and there just isn’t time for a walk in the woods, or an afternoon nap on the couch, or to make a big fresh salad for lunch.

What we need, every now and then, is to hit the reset button by going on retreat.

So this sweet retreat is for women who understand the value of taking time out of the busy-ness of daily life to reconnect to yourself, to nourish your own health, feed your creativity. But who may not find it easy to make that time, most of the time.

The sweet retreat includes:

* 5 nights at Esalen Institute, including all meals made fresh from ingredients grown on-site. All rooms are triples (if you are coming with a friend, or two, let me know so we can room you together)

* Practices, tools, support and opportunities to rest and reconnect with your creative, courageous, compassionate self in ways that will empower you in your work in the world, nourish your ability to care for the people you love, and reconnect you with a sense of meaning and purpose.

* Opportunities for yoga and writing practice, with support, instruction and encouragement from Marianne.

* Full access to Esalen Institute’s amazing, healing hot tubs, Pacific Ocean views, creekside hikes, meditation spaces, gardens, other movement classes and massage (massage is at an additional cost).

* Opportunity to connect with others because sometimes we need to share a meal with someone who isn’t checking their phone every few minutes.

* Time for rest, stillness, silence and solitude.

Cost: Early-bird price $1425 incl shared room and meals – until 20 May (after 20 May $1625)

If a sweet retreat with me + to reset your compass, refuel your motivation and soak in the healing waters of Esalen feels like the right way to spend some time this summer, register now (or read on for more details)

Cancellations and refunds: If you need to cancel before May 31st, we’ll refund your payment. After 31 May, we won’t be able to give refunds, but someone else can take your place.

What will we do?

The focus of the retreat is on rest and connection: reconnecting to your own body through yoga and delicious healthy food; reconnecting to your own creativity through movement and writing, reconnecting to the earth and ocean through the beautiful grounds and three converging waters of Esalen, and connecting to a small circle of other women. Every day we’ll have a period of quiet time, when there will be absolutely nothing to do but walk through the grounds at Esalen, soak in the hot pools, nap in the sun on the grassy cliffs over the Pacific Ocean, curl up with a book, get yourself a massage, write or take photographs.

We’ll do yoga.

I teach kind yoga, yoga that meets your body where it is right now, no matter where that is, with kindness. Because kindness, especially when it comes to our bodies, is revolutionary. Here’s what some people have said about my yoga teaching on past retreats:

Perfect, delicious, joyous. Kind yoga is the best! – Susan, California

Fantastic! I love her style and her presence and her fearlessness about making it pure fun. Some of the best, most healing and giggly yoga I have ever done. – Carise Mitch

Marianne, your gentle instruction and kind encouragement throughout the practice made it feel so safe to step outside my comfort zone. I connected and felt comfortable with my body in a way I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before. – Karen Coverett

I have always been terrified to try yoga even though I really wanted to do it. I felt intimidated and self-conscious. Marianne introduced it to us in a safe and fun way. Loved it and want to do more. – Patty Fischer

We’ll write.

We’ll write because, just as yoga reconnects us with our body and brings us back into the present moment with all the joys and possibilities it holds, writing reconnects us with our spirit, and reminds us of the wonders we hold within our own imagination. There are no rules for this writing, no standards you have to meet, no pressure to share. I’m going to introduce you to a wonderful writing practice I learned from Natalie Goldberg. You don’t need to have a specific writing project in mind, and you don’t need to show anyone else what you write. Unless you want to.

We’ll rest.

Bring those books you’ve been meaning to read but haven’t found time for, bring the accumulated weeks and months of not-quite-enough-sleep. Every day we’ll have quiet time for napping, resting, writing and reading and the Easlen grounds are full of perfect little nooks for curling up in the sun with a book. There is even a gorgeous little meditation room, tucked into the side of the riverbank, if quiet time to sit is what you’ve been craving most of all. Esalen is also famous for it’s massage therapists.

We’ll eat.

We’ll eat amazing, delicious, healthy food - much of it grown on site in Easlen’s biodynamic gardens. Esalen’s kitchens are world famous for their incredible food. At breakfast there is fresh fruit, various kinds of porridge, eggs, toast and more. They have a big salad bar at lunch and dinner and most nights there are one or two soup options, plus a vegetarian and non-vegetarian entree option. And dessert! I’ve never gone hungry at Esalen, and I always leave dreaming of my next meal there.

We’ll soak.

We’ll soak in the healing waters of Esalen’s beautiful hot tubs – cut into the cliffs over the Pacific ocean. One of my favorite experiences in the world is lying in the quiet in those tubs, watching otter floating in the kelp of the ocean below me.

We’ll connect.

As well as reconnecting to ourselves, we’ll have time to connect with each other – time to hear from other women, and to be heard ourselves. And I promise you, it won’t be forced, it won’t be touchy-feely, and it won’t be uncomfortable. Because connection can be as simple as sharing a meal without any phones on the table, as profound as hearing someone read her own writing for the first time, or as natural as soaking together in a hot-tub.

Questions you might have:

What if I don’t know anyone else going? 

You won’t be the only one. There are only 9 places in this retreat and although it is possible some people might come who already know each other, the odds are that most people will be meeting for the first time. I don’t find it easy to meet new people, or to come into a group of new people. So I know how that can feel, and part of my job is to help you feel comfortable and at ease as you meet new people.

What if I’ve never done yoga before? 

You don’t need to have any experience of yoga to enjoy the yoga on this retreat. The style of yoga I teach is simple, accessible and fun – and yet at the same time can be very powerful in it’s effect.

What if I have an injury or some form of physical disability? 

In my yoga classes I am more than happy to help people make adjustments to find the right practice for their body – including working with people with disability or injury. But please talk to your doctor first and do let me know in advance about any injuries. If you have a disability which affects your mobility, please get in touch with me so we can talk – some parts of the Easlen property are not very accessible and I’d want to talk that through with you before you decide whether or not this is the right retreat for you.

What if I’m not a writer? 

That is absolutely fine! The writing practice we’ll be doing together is wonderful because it works just as well for experienced writer and people who’ve never written before. There will be no pressure to share your writing and you don’t need to have a specific project to work on. We’ll write as a way to connect to our ability to pay attention to the world around us, and as a way to reconnect to what is already present in us.

What if I’m shy? 

I’m a pretty low key, relatively introverted person myself. I’m not shy, but I do need time to get used to big new groups and I like time alone to process all the new information from being with others. So this really is going to be a ‘sweet retreat’: it’ll be small (only 9 women) with opportunities to connect to the other women there in very unthreatening, non-confrontational ways, and then plenty of space to be by yourself to recover, if you need that.

What if I have special dietary needs?

In my experience, Esalen’s kitchen do a fantastic job of catering for all sort so different diets. They offer meat options, vegetarian options, vegan options, gluten-free options and dairy-free options. SOmetimes the entree will contain dairy or egg or gluten, but when that happens they have soup options and the amazing salad bar that means you can create the meal that suits you. You can read more about the food at Esalen here.

What if I’m a bit intimidated by the idea of going on retreat? Or not sure that I’m cut out for it?

If you’ve never been on a retreat before you might wonder what it will be like, and whether you’ll enjoy it. Will you be able to cope with sharing a room? Will you like the food? Will you like the other people? What if you hate it, will you be stuck there?

Here’s what I can tell you, some aspects of the retreat experience will be blissfully comfortable and fun for you and other aspects are likely to be a little bit challenging. The accommodation, though set in one of the most beautiful spots on earth and very comfortable, is shared and is not 5 star luxury. The food is deliciously simple rather than gourmet. Some of the things we do together (yoga, writing, group meals) might take you a little bit out of your comfort zone.

But I can also tell you that:

• I’ll be there to support you through the parts you find hard, and so will the other women; and
• Even the parts that are a wee bit challenging are worth it.

How far is Esalen from the nearest airport? How do I get there? Will my cell phone work?

You can read more about how to get to Esalen and other practicalities, here on their FAQ page.

Cost: Early-bird price $1425 incl shared room and meals – until 20 May (after 20 May $1625)

Cancellations and refunds: If you need to cancel before May 31st, we’ll refund your payment. After 31 May, we won’t be able to give refunds, but someone else can take your place.

If a sweet little retreat with me + soaking in the healing waters of Esalen feels like the right way to spend some time this summer, register now:

More feedback on my yoga retreats:

That voice! That accent! That beautiful chanting! I have experienced a lot of yoga, Marianne brought a breath of fresh air to it. – Sue Vita

I found Marianne to be a wonderful yoga teacher – very inspiring, with a unique approach that was fun and engaging. I loved every moment of it. – Amy Oscar

What a joy! The yoga we did released something so deep – exactly where I needed to go. Who knew tears could spring forth after such light-hearted of yoga. The unexpected and miraculous happens. – Colleen Nolan Armstrong

Being totally new to yoga, it was a delight to be exposed to different forms and poses. Marianne is patient and kind, and brings a beautiful balance of fun mixed with tradition and respect to the mat. – Shirley Gerber

Have you ever had the experience of writing, creating or teaching something and then hearing from someone who has read, studied or taken part in it and thinking to yourself: ‘She got more from it than I even realised I was putting in it?’

It often happens to me when I’m teaching yoga, which is no great surprise since yoga packs so much subtle power, and acts on levels even the teacher may not be aware of at the time.

I got that feeling when I spoke to Amy Foltz recently about her experience at the Creative Joy retreat last year. I asked Amy if I could interview her about her experience at the retreat and – more importantly – in the six months since because I really wanted to know whether the benefits of Creative Joy had last longer than the flight home.

To answer my question, Amy said she’d first have to explain why she came to the retreat:

Something was missing in my everyday life. I’d been living a lot in my head and in my hands, thinking and doing. I wasn’t paying attention to my heart or what I think of as the whole body, that animating spirit of self-expression. The practical everyday had really taken over.”

As she spoke I thought ‘That sounds a lot like how my life feels when I’ve been neglecting the part of me that loves to dance for the joy of it, run purely to feel the sun on my face, write with no deadline or project in mind, and read books for no purpose other than pleasure.’

When I demand that every moment of my day be ‘productive’, the juice seems to drain from my creativity. Writing becomes a chore – ‘I just need to churn this article out by 5pm and then I can relax’. Even yoga starts to feel like just one more thing I have to tick off my ‘To Do’ list. And when the juice is running dry it is impossible be truly creative. More importantly, it becomes very difficult to find joy even in things I usually love.

Which is why I loved it when Jen Louden suggested ‘Creative Joy’ as a theme for the retreat we wanted to create together.

To be perfectly honest with you, I would never have come up with it myself. When people ask me to suggest topics for workshops and retreats I tend to propose earnest, ostensibly noble subjects like ‘Yoga as Service’ or ‘Writing to Change the World.’

I have a quote at the front of my book, Zen Under Fire. It reads:

I slept, and dreamt that life was joy.

I awoke and saw that life was service.

I acted and behold, service was joy.

~ Rabindranath Tagore

I continue to believe that service is joy. But only when we are serving from a place of having honoured and nourished our own creative essence. When we have made space in our lives for Creative Joy. Talking with Amy this week reminded me just what that means.

When I asked Amy what had stayed with her, six months after the Creative Joy retreat she said:

A big thing that I’ve taken away from Creative Joy is coming back to those things that are what I would now call ‘essentially Amy’. It makes me a lot more connected and present to my life. I felt like I was doing a lot of things automatically and procedurally, and now it’s like I’m actually here and doing things proactively. … I’m asking ‘What does my whole being need right now?’, paying attention and being mindful.”

Which made me ask myself, ‘What are the things I would call ‘essentially Marianne’? Yoga, moving, story-telling, writing, dancing, exploring, asking questions, caring (a lot). All things that I’ve noticed seem to lose their juice – even their appeal– when I insist on tying them all to measurable, productive outcomes.

So here’s what Creative Joy means to me: Connecting with my essential creative practices for the pure joy of them. Asking ‘What does my whole being need right now?’ rather than ‘What’s next on the list?’

What are the things you would call ‘essentially [insert your name here]’?

What would it feel like to do them for joy, rather than product or outcome?

Is it time to give yourself the gift of Creative Joy?

Here’s Amy’s advice:

Come with an open heart and an open mind, willing to see what you can do, not judging yourself. Savouring the doing of it, not for the sake of having some masterpiece at the end, but for exploring, expressing yourself. Thinking of these things not as an end result, but as a practice, as a process, has been a philosophy that I’ve tried to carry into really all aspects of my life. When the perfectionist in me starts wigging out, I think ‘We’re just practicing. We’re just practicing. Look at the process.’

We’ll be opening registration for Creative Joy exclusively to people on the early notice list on Monday. We’ve already filled a number of the places with our Creative Joy alumni – women like Amy who came last year.

If you want to get on the early notice list (and get the $50 off discount available only to people on that list), you can do that here.

On 6 February, if there are any places left, we’ll open registration to the public.

Read my interview with Amy in full:

Marianne: Amy, what would you say has stayed with you over the past six months since the Creative Joy retreat?

Amy: That it is about the little things I do to keep Creative Joy alive for me as much as the big gestures where I decide to do something for hours or days on end.

Marianne: What was it about the experience of the retreat that brought that home to you?

Amy: Well, maybe it goes back to why I found you guys. Basically something was missing in my everyday life. When I saw your retreat advertised I thought, ‘Wow, that just sounds absolutely glorious.’ Because I’d been living a lot in my head and in my hands, thinking and doing.

I wasn’t paying attention to the heart or what I think of as the whole body, that animating spirit of self-expression. The practical everyday had really taken over. So a big thing that I’ve taken away from Creative Joy is coming back to those things that are, I guess, what I would now call essentially Amy.

Marianne: That’s beautiful. And how does that make your life different?

Amy: It makes me a lot more connected and present to my life. I felt like I was doing a lot of things automatically and procedurally, and it’s like I’m actually here and doing things proactively. And trying to put as much of what is either my insight or my personality into what I’m doing.

Marianne: And so you say that Creative Joy, can be cultivated and sustained and experienced in the little things, not necessarily in the big things.

Amy: Yes.

Marianne: Can you give me some examples? Like what are the little things that you do differently now than you would have before?

Amy: Well, I really make time for making things, and I pay attention to what it is that my animating spirit really wants to make, if that makes sense. Sometimes it’s words. Sometimes it’s pictures or colours. Sometimes it’s doing something physical like getting up and dancing or doing yoga, but it’s really ‘What does my whole being need right now?’, and understanding that it does actually need something; paying attention and being mindful.

Marianne: That’s beautiful. I love it.

Amy: Well, it’s made my life a whole lot more beautiful. So I love it too.

Marianne: It feels like when you saw the retreat, when you read about it, there was like already some degree of clarity for you of what was missing. Do you think you would need to have that clarity in order to benefit from Creative Joy?

Amy: No, no, not at all. I think one of the other amazing things I found about it was how impressed I was by a lot of the women who were already very in touch with that animating spirit; people who were incredibly energetic and enthusiastic and very open with sharing and expressing themselves. And obviously having a great time and wonderful role models for us; the small groups that we were in, I had four just amazing women in the small group that we met with who were really inspiring.

Marianne: So what I’m hearing from you is this is not just a retreat for people who feel completely disconnected from creative joy. Although it is absolutely for them. But it’s also an environment that could be really refreshing and nourishing for people who already cultivate this in their life, but there’s always room for more.

Amy: Absolutely. And the chance to get away to nurture it, even if it’s something that you’ve incorporated on a daily basis, the chance to really devote a whole period of time where you don’t have the normal responsibilities of day-to-day life helps you deepen those things.

Marianne: Absolutely. One of the questions a lot of people have about this retreat is either perhaps they don’t think they’re a writer, they’re don’t think they’re a photographer or perhaps they’ve never done yoga. And it’s all very well for Jen and Tracey and I to reassure people that there’s no need for any particular level of expertise; that these are simply tools we use to connect with our own animating force—to use your lovely language. But they might prefer to hear from somebody who was there. How did you experience Creative Joy in terms of the technical level of skill that you would need to have to enjoy the experience?

Amy: I think if you come with an open heart and an open mind and you’re willing to see what you can do, and not come in judging yourself, because ultimately the idea is that you can. But doing any of these things are an expression of yourself at whatever level you’re ready to do it.

I had not done yoga in very long time and was very nervous about doing that specifically, and it was wonderful. It was transformative for me to really remember that my body can do some of these things and if I ask it it will do more.

The writing was probably the scariest because as a person that likes words, a lot of judgement goes into the words that come out of my mouth or out of my pen or keyboard, so really focusing on the joy and the process and not the product. And I think that was one of the things that Jen talked about and savouring the doing of it not necessarily for the sake of having some masterpiece at the end, but just exploring, expressing yourself.

Marianne: Yes. Jen has been a teacher for me in that regard. She really has a lot of insight into what gets in the way of our true creative force, and that desire to control the outcome, which I think a lot of us share. But it really does. It really blocks the possibility for what might emerge, and I think that’s one of the things that she teaches so wonderfully in this context.

Amy: Yes. And it’s there in the yoga as well. Thinking of these things not as an end result, but as a practice, as a process, has been a philosophy that I’ve tried to carry into really all aspects of my life. So when the perfectionist in me starts wigging out, I think ‘We’re just practicing. We’re just practicing. Look at the process.’

Marianne: Yes! I love the word practice. It gives me so much space in yoga and in meditation because we use it with both two beautiful senses. There’s the sense for me of being committed; when you practice something it means that you keep doing it- there’s a consistency in practice. But it also has that other lovely sense of rehearsing. It doesn’t have to be perfect yet, and I love that as well. I find those two things bring a nice balance between the kind of commitment that serves me, but with a lovely ease – without that sense of having to get it right.

Amy: Definitely.

Marianne: My last question, which I think in a sense you’ve already answered, is what changes do you think have taken place in yourself out of the experience of taking the time to be at Creative Joy this past summer?

Amy: Well, probably the first one has been how important it is to take the time to take care of yourself in all of the different ways that means: both physically and paying attention to that thing inside, that animating spirit that goes into every aspect of your life, your work, your relationships, your hobby. It really opens your eyes and your heart to life and not just go from day to day.

Marianne: Beautiful. Thank you so much, Amy.

Amy: It’s such a wonderful experience whatever people are coming to it for, and I think probably if you asked every woman, they got something different out of it, but something equally exciting for them. And I can’t say enough how great a time I had.

On the one hand I am a storyteller who believes our stories have incredible power to help us connect to each other, empathise with each other’s experiences and begin to see the world in new ways. I believe stories can lead us to change the way we act and – therefore – bring about profound social transformation.

And on the other hand, I’m a human being who chose this year to put some of my most intimate and vulnerable stories out into the world and I know just how raw and exposed that left me feeling - even when I was the one holding the pen. So I’m very aware of how incredibly sensitive and careful I want to be when it comes to drawing on other people’s stories to advance social change that I believe in.

Recently I’ve had to come back to the question: which stories do I have the right to tell?

When I set out to write Zen Under Fire I decided that I couldn’t tell the stories of the people I met and learned from in Afghanistan if I wasn’t willing to tell my own story. Equally, I couldn’t tell my own story without telling, or at least touching on, other people’s stories. So how could I decide which stories to tell? What right did I have to tell them?

I came up with my own set of criteria for deciding whether or not to include in my book a story that reveals information about another person. Then I came up with a second set of criteria for deciding whether or not to then conceal the identity of those people.

I recently had the pleasure of meeting Claire Dederer, author of Poser, and this was one of the main topics of our conversation: how we had come up with our own criteria to decide what to include in our books about other people – our partners, parents, colleagues and neighbours. There are no easy answers. Each writer has to decide for themselves.

And each writer then has to accept responsibility for the impact of the choices we make.

Which scared the heck out of me.

The thing I’ve been most afraid of since the book was published is that I might have made an error of judgement in applying my criteria, and someone would be harmed as a result.

Last month my publishers received the first complaint from someone mentioned in my book. She said she felt my use of her name put her at some risk as she was still in Afghanistan, although not in the same part of the country. On the positive, it didn’t appear from her letter that anyone in her current work environment had yet recognised her from the book and no direct harm had yet been done.

But I had put her at risk.

I felt terrible. I had failed to forsee the possible harm to this person and had therefore failed to protect her sufficiently from recognition.

I wrote back, apologising for my error in judgment. My publisher agreed to make changes to the book for future reprints that would better conceal her identity. It was an imperfect response, but I reminded myself that risk is subjective, and differences in opinion are inevitable. I took some comfort in the knowledge that I had a process and a criteria to try to assure the safety of people appearing in my book, even if it was flawed.

This week I’ve been working on a radio story about the effect of 15 years of humanitarian work on a NZ aid worker who also happens to be one of my best friends. So I’m once again very aware of this risk. And in the wake of the tragic school shooting in Sandy Hook, many of us might be asking ourselves just how much of another person’s story any of us can – in good conscience – tell.

We’ll all arrive at different answers to that question, but as someone whose story-gathering and story-telling work brings me regularly into contact with people who have experienced trauma, I found a lot of useful guidance in this article by Jina Moore – non-fiction editor at Guernica magazine and human rights journalist.

In that article, Moore presents “Five Ideas on Meaningful Consent in Trauma Journalism” – in summary they are:

1. Meaningful consent comes from the survivor.

2. Meaningful consent is given for specific use.

3. Meaningful consent is given at an appropriate time.

4. Meaningful consent repeats itself.

5. Trauma journalism has different standards.

On the last point, she says:

This is the fraught territory that is trauma reporting … We write about people’s moments of greatest vulnerability. … That’s what trauma reporting is. And that literally turns journalistic practice on its head. … We have to rewrite our playbook. The premise is still the same – protect the vulnerable – but now, we’re not the vulnerable. Our sources are.”

Whenever I choose to write about war, sexual violence, crime, human rights violations or any situation in which I am writing about people in their moments of greatest vulnerability, I place myself in a position of great power. Even when I place myself in the story, even when I choose to make myself vulnerable as well. I am still holding the pen, I am still holding much more power than anyone else in my story. And my first duty is to protect the vulnerable.

Whose story is it to tell? Sometimes that question is harder to answer than it might seem. Which is why we need criteria for determining what constitutes meaningful consent, what stays in, what is kept out and what gets altered to conceal identity.

I’m not convinced I’ve found the right criteria. Which is why I’ll keep asking myself the question.

(Batman ‘Word’ by Defiant Ant)

I’ve always wondered, is it lonely work, being a superhero? 

It’s not so bad. I have Robin.

Right, but a sidekick is not quite the same as a friend is it?

Maybe not. But he does admire me, he looks up to me.

My point exactly. A friend loves you, even though they know your flaws. A side-kick presumably follows you because they don’t see your flaws. 

I wouldn’t be so sure that Robin doesn’t see my flaws. He’s not an idiot you know, even though he wears those ridiculous tights.

I’m not sure you should be talking about ridiculous tights… 

Fair call. But maybe you’re right. It’s not like I’m going to tell Robin my deepest fears. He needs to believe I’m fearless, that’s the deal here.

So you don’t really have any friends? 

Not unless you count Cat Woman. And she doesn’t count. So no, I don’t. It’s hard to have friends in this line of work. Work always has to come first and it takes you to places not many people want to go.

What about the whole alter-ego thing. Is that a way to make friends? Keep the ‘hero’ thing under wraps, mingle with the hoi polloi? Make some friends?

You know, I used to think it would work that way, but it’s hard to make friends when you have a whole secret life you can’t share with them. I have acquaintances, but beyond that I have to keep most people at a distance.

This whole ‘secret life’ thing intrigues me. Because on the one hand you have the secret superhero identity – the life of saving the helpless, preventing crime, fighting for justice. But then there’s this other secret – it’s like there is a murky, shadowy secret part of you as well. A part of you that you don’t ever want to have come out, whether you are Batman or your mild-mannered alter-ego. What’s that about? What is it about superheroes that gives them all this dark side?

Now you’re getting into the big questions. Like where do we come from? Heroes I mean. Why us and not someone else? Why are we compelled to save others? And when you start asking those kinds of questions, you always come up against the murkiness.

So are you saying that behind every hero is a shadowy history, some kind of painful past that created this drive to stand against evil?  

Well, I haven’t done any kind of empirical research but I know heroes. Most of my friends are heroes, as far as I have friends. And every one of us has a story. If you ask us why we do what we do, we might tell you a admirable story about justice and service. But dig beneath the surface and you will find something less noble. We are the abandoned kids, the jilted lovers, the unjustly imprisoned of the world.

So it’s almost as though the superhero gig is a way to put right what has gone wrong in your own lives? 

I don’t know if it is always quite that simple. But I am going to tell you that superheroes are motivated by guilt, shame, fear and anger as much as they are by love, justice and service. We’re a shadowy crew. No doubt about that.

So to come back to my first question – do you think these painful histories are part of what makes this a lonely life? 

I think those murky histories are part of what make us lonely people. I think I’d be lonely whether or not I was Batman. Being Batman just gives me a good excuse.

Right, so tell me more about that. How does this superhero role give you an excuse to be lonely. 

Well, people want their heroes to be perfect. They don’t want to know that Sir Edmund Hilary lost his temper at Tenzing, or that Batman gets totally freaked out by bad traffic. Heroes are supposed to be above that kind of shit. But we’re human too. So the only way to save the world from the disappointment of finding our just how flawed we are, we keep ourselves apart from the world.

I’ve often wondered that, how is someone like Sir Edmund supposed to come back down off the mountain and be a normal human again. Once people have declared you a hero they kind of expect you to behave like one, right? 

Exactly. Exactly.

So here’s another question. Why do we need heroes? I mean, why can’t we all just take care of ourselves and each other? Why do we need you guys to be bigger, better, stronger, faster than the rest of us? Why do we need heroes to save us? 

I don’t think we do. We can take care of ourselves and each other perfectly well and none of us need any superpowers to do that. But somewhere along the way we got the idea that it would be easier if someone stronger than us could swoop in and save us. Maybe it’s some kind of memory of god. Or maybe we’re just lazy.

Or maybe we don’t really want heroes. We’ve just been told all our lives that we need them. What if we’d do a better job left to our own devices? Do you ever wonder that? 

Oh totally. I wonder that all the time. I look at an old lady getting mugged on the street and I know that the expectation is that I’ll swoop in to save her. But I can see right there on the street at least a dozen people who would do just as good a job as me. Better actually, because they are her neighbours, and they know her.

So you have misgivings about your own role as a superhero? 

Oh yeah. All the time. I’m always asking myself: ‘Do these people even really want my help? Are they just taking it because it’s being given, whether or not they need it? Have I created some kind of superhero-dependency here?” But you know what, I think it’s good to ask those kinds of questions.

Well, sure. It’s good to ask the questions, but then what? Have you ever thought about giving it up? Seeing how people manage without you? 

Sure. But once you get into this kind of situation it’s hard to get out. I mean, people rely on me now. If I were just to pull out, they’d be left a bit high and dry. I mean, eventually of course they’d work out their own ways of solving these problems but in the meantime things could get a bit messy.

So you need an exit strategy?

An exit strategy? Ha, I’ve never heard it called that but yeah. That works. I need an exit strategy. And to be honest, I don’t really know what else I would do. This line of work isn’t exactly just a job, you know? It’s been my whole way of life for so many years, I don’t know how I’d even fit in to any other kind of role or setting any more.

Right. Right.

And you get hooked on this feeling that you are helping people, I mean really helping people. I don’t know what else I could do that would give me that kind of a buzz.

Well, sure. There aren’t many jobs that’ll give you the same sense of purpose as being a superhero. 

Exactly.

Exactly. 

So for now I make sure that I’m always asking myself honest questions, like what are my real motivations for this work? Am I really doing it to help and serve others, or am I doing it to feel like my life has purpose, like I’m a good person? And I ask myself, do these people really need my help or am I sweeping in to save people who actually could have taken pretty good care of themselves (maybe even with less broken windows, and less fuss).

So you make a point of asking yourself those questions, but then you carry on with the work just like before? 

No, no. Well, kind of. I try to adjust the way I work so that I’m not doing things that could easily have been done by someone already on the ground. Or if I do swoop in, I try to work alongside the people who were already there, you know, boost their capacity to deal with the problem rather than just doing it for them.

And how about the loneliness? How do you deal with that?

I guess I’ve just learned to live with it.

That’s kind of sad, don’t you think? 

Yes, I guess it is. But you know, the work makes up for it. Knowing that I’m really helping people.

And when you are not sure whether you are really helping people or not. Does that make the loneliness harder to bear?

You’re a bit of a downer, you know that?

Sorry, it’s just I can’t help wondering whether you are going to regret this one day. Especially if we all realize that superheroes did less good than we originally thought. Then what will justify what you’ve given up? You know?

Yes. Of course. I know exactly what you mean and truth be told, I mostly try not to think about it too much. But the thought is there: what if this all actually isn’t worth it? What if I’m not really helping? It’s not a comforting thought.

Haiku

green tea, cooling

i wait for you

winter comes

body held still

pen trembles silently

she catches haiku

black crow, silver light

sparrows backlit

in grey

worn wooden beads

right hand moving

a prayer

strawberry pancake with cream

i think of afghanistan

and cry

summer of writing, once again

i will make

these promises

seven sets of deer antlers

white against adobe wall

the hunter gone

blue-capped and orange-vested

he scoops up a handful of gravel

and waits for his muse

white meccano bridge

who scooped out this gorge

with his heel?

three women walk towards me

silent, compact, grave

i think if my mother

Ten minute writing practice – prompt: Who gave you permission?

Who gave you permission to write? Who told you it was okay to put these things down? These private things? Who told you you could tell these stories?

Was it your blood, pumping – boum, boum, boum – speeding up when you read a story that catches you, grabs you, pulls you in?

Was it the hairs on your arms standing to attention? Whenever you read, or hear, or see someone telling a story so true, so close to the flesh and bone, that your skin contracts and your hairs stand up straight?

Was it your breath, coming fast and shallow when you read stories that uncover what has been hidden, showing you that you are not the only one to think these thoughts, to feel these desires, to ask these questions?

Was it your hands, restless for pen and paper, twitching and itching until you give in?

Was it the wind that comes down of Taos Mountain, cool caress of your skin and whisper in your ear of your mountain, Maungatautari. A whisper from the land you belong to and all it’s stories?

Was it the sun, stroking your hair with warm fingers and telling you that it remembers you too – it remembers the days in the high mountain desert in Ghor, the dry, cracked earth, the long afternoons sitting under its warm gaze and the stories you were told there.

Who gave you permission to tell these stories? Was it the stories themselves, tucked into the folds of your flesh, carved into the lines on the back of your hands, curled tightly into the corners of your heart?

Was it the stories? Did they come whispering to you, asking: ‘Do you remember us too?’

Ten minute writing practice – prompt: I remember

Every morning before I eat, I remember this: I have food while some have none.

And every morning I remember you. I remember your email telling me about the time, when you were a boy, that you found the bodies of 40 people – men, women and children – who had starved because of the terrible drought. And I remember sitting with you on the patio in Herat in May this year, when you told me that you were worried about this winter, worried that too many people would not have enough food to get through.

And then the tears start to come, and I lose my appetite. I look at the strawberry pancakes on my plate and wonder how I can eat them, remembering you.

So I have to think back further. I remember when I wrote to you, soon after I left Afghanistan and was home in New Zealand. I told you I was finding it hard to enjoy being home. I was finding it hard to enjoy my walks over Mt Victoria, my morning coffee in the sun with Andrew, because every time I noticed how happy I was I would be struck by guilt. I would think of you, of all of you still in Chegcharan. Still in danger, still hungry, still not sure what the future holds for you.

And I remember what you wrote to me then.

You told me the problem is not that I can walk in the park without fear of landmines, or American drones or Taleban bombers. The problem is not that I can eat fresh strawberries and creamy yoghurt. The problem is that you still cannot.

You told me to enjoy it all. Enjoy it, savor it, be nourished by it. And then, you said, ‘Take that joy and that strength and keep doing all you can to make sure we can enjoy these things too.’

So this morning I said a prayer. I prayed that everyone in Afghanistan will one day be able to walk in a park without fear. I prayed that one day everyone in Afghanistan will have enough to eat.

And then I ate my pancakes, slowly chewing each bite, enjoying, savoring, allowing them to nourish me.

And then I sat down to write this. Because for today, the only work I know to do for you, is to keep telling these stories. The only thing I can do from here, in Taos, New Mexico, is to share what you have taught me.

Ten minute writing practice – prompt: Chickens

I was afraid of my mother’s chickens.  I sometimes feel I was afraid of everything back then. I was afraid of the bulls in the paddock I had to walk through to feed the chickens, even though my father told me there was nothing to be scared of because he didn’t put the dangerous bulls in the house paddock.

And I was afraid of the chickens. I was afraid that one day they would get their revenge on me for stealing their eggs every day. I didn’t like to reach underneath them when they were roosting, afraid they would peck or scratch me to defend their eggs. So I would tempt them outside by loudly shaking their food out onto the floor and into the metal feeder made out of an old milk barrel lid. As soon as they came out of the coop I would run inside with my empty ice-cream container.

Their nests were really just wooden shelves built by my father or, more likely, my grandfather, and filled with straw. When I picked them up, some of the eggs were still warm from the chicken’s bodies. Some had little smears of chicken shit on them, or tiny fluffy white feathers stuck to them. I would place them carefully into the ice-cream container, careful not to let them crash into each other.

On the way back through the bull paddock I wondered whether, if a bull charged me, it would be okay to drop the eggs and run. Because more than the chickens or even the bulls, I was afraid of being bad. I was afraid that Jesus would come back again to gather up my parents and sisters and everyone I loved in the rapture. I was afraid I would be left behind.

I was afraid of the rivers of blood and plagues of terrible diseases that would come after that. I was afraid of being alone – the only member of my family not good enough to be with God – for the apocalypse.

More than chickens or bulls, more than anything, I was afraid of not being good.

To illustrate – earlier this week, an email exchange between my editor and I led to the following chain of events:

1. Me writing a short essay on Edward Said‘s critique of Orientalism’s objectification of Muslim women; applying my understanding of and concerns about said ‘Orientalism’ to the covers of a variety of popular memoirs about women in the Muslim world.

2. My editor crying a little bit and asking her friends and colleagues to remind her to NEVER take on a human rights lawyer as an author, EVER AGAIN (NB: I didn’t actually see this part, but I’m using my imagination and empathic abilities to fill in the gaps).

3. Me despairing, (I can be a wee bit dramatic sometimes, which may be one of the reasons I fit in so well in war zones), and tweeting this:

4. David Michael Moore, aka the Retweet Artist, illustrating my tweet:

I was appropriately amused and distracted.

But NOT distracted enough to forget what I was worried about in the first place. Which leads me to the prayer of the author who isn’t established (for which read, bankable) enough to negotiate to have final approval of her own cover…

Please, let it be beautiful. 

And if it cannot be beautiful, please let it be compelling. 

And if it cannot be compelling, Dear God-of-Books-and-the-People-Who-Write-Read-and-Love-Them, please let it not be offensive to my friends in Afghanistan. 

Amen. Namaste. Salaam. Shalom. 

Be yourself.

Of course that is infinitely more difficult than it first appears. I’ve been thinking about what it really means. What does it even mean to ‘be myself’ when I’m writing non-fiction?

According to Zinsser it means two things:

Relax and be confident.

A relaxed and confident writer will produce two of what Zinsser argues are the most important qualities in great non-fiction writing:

Warmth and humanity.

Which sounds great. Obviously. We all want our writing to have warmth and humanity. But what could be more difficult, as a writer, than to relax and to have confidence?

I love this quote from Zinsser:

All [writers] are vulnerable and all of them are tense. They are driven by a compulsion to put some part of themselves on paper, and yet they don’t just write what comes naturally. They sit down to commit to an act of literature, and the self who emerges on paper is much stiffer than the person who sat down to write. The problem is to find the real man [or woman] behind the tension.

All writers are vulnerable (that’s how we know we are writing courageously) and all of us are tense. And the challenge is to find the real woman behind the tension. Got it. Makes sense. And this is, as you may have guessed, where yoga comes in. Because yoga is, perhaps above all else, a practice in releasing tension. Which is one of the reasons we resist it.

Because our tension is known.

In some cases, our tension has been with us for as long as we can remember. It feels safer to stay with it.

About five years ago I went for a massage, and the wonderful practitioner told me she was going to work to release some of the tension around my hips. When she was done, and I stood up off the massage table, I got a fright. My hips were so relaxed that I felt sure my leg was going to fall out of my hip socket. That’s how familiar my tension had become to me. It felt unsafe for me to be relaxed.

But as long as we remain tense, we are missing out on the chance to get to the real woman behind the tension, and – if we are writers, or artists or creators of any kind – our writing, our art, our work will be missing something.

So we take a risk. We let go of the tension.

Maybe only a little bit at a time. But breath by breath, little by little – with humility and courage – we relax on our yoga mat. And as we relax on our yoga mats, little by little, we learn to relax off our mats.

As we relax, we learn that we can be vulnerable in new and powerful ways. And we find new levels of confidence. Some days, at least.

Are bodies are part of our creative work. This much I know. We all have different bodies, and different practices work for different people. For me, yoga frees the tension in my body, and walking lifts the clouds from my spirit.

I’ve said it before (mostly to myself, I must add) and I’ll say it again (and again, and again). If you want to do your best work in the world, you have to take care of your body.

So it’s time.

It’s time to get off your f@*king computer and go for a f@$king walk! Or, you know, do some f$@king yoga.

If you have never done any yoga and don’t know where to start, I have two free yoga practices that are 100% suitable for total beginners, and specifically designed for people who spend a lot of time on a computer. Also, apparently, very good for people using crutches!

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