Soul of the Valley was four days of healing, intention, and trying different ways to show up for ourselves and seek balance. There was meditation, yoga, Reiki, sound, and plenty of room to arrive as you were. The right people were in the room: funny, open, and safe. That is the headline of the whole journey.

Here it is again, all in one sitting: the full retreat, in order, with the moments that stayed with me.

Day One: Arrival and the Welcome Dinner

Getting there took the long way in. By the time we arrived, there were bags to settle, rooms to find, and the ordinary little tasks that come with bringing people together. Then the table came together, too. It worked, not because everything had to be perfect, but because people made space for one another.

At dinner, we spoke our intentions aloud. There is something about saying a hope in the company of other people that makes it feel both more real and more tender. You hear your own words, and you hear everyone else making room for them.

Mine was simple: find things that make me happy and continue to be happy. Not happiness as a performance, not a demand to be cheerful on command. Just noticing what brings me joy and making a little more room for it. The kind of intention you can carry without needing a laminated card and a five-step implementation plan.

That first evening gave us a place to begin. We had a table, a shared purpose, and the beginning of a circle where nobody had to pretend to have everything figured out.

Day Two: Morning Practice and the Valley

The morning started with hot lemon water and herbs, then opened into qigong, the Brocade, and Tai Chi with the valley in front of us. The view was not a small detail. It was right there, wide and steady, while we tried to find our own steadiness.

Participation was open. People could join in and meet the practice where they were. And I’ll say plainly: resistance was present. Four guests were new to this practice and were bracing to be judged. That feeling deserved room, too. A welcoming space is not one where everyone arrives instantly comfortable; it is one where discomfort does not get you sent to the back of the line.

We kept moving, gently, with the valley as our backdrop. I recorded the practice, and that recording became part of the story: a way to hold onto the morning as it happened, including the uncertainty and the trying.

Later, the immersive soundscape offered another way to settle into the moment. Sound did not ask us to be experts. We could listen, breathe, and notice what was happening. Between the movement and the sound, the day made room for different kinds of participation, and that mattered.

Day Three: Yoga, Reiki and the Gong You Can Feel

Day Three brought yoga, Reiki, and a gong that did not simply make a sound so much as make itself known. You could feel it. The body has a way of receiving an experience before the mind finishes writing its review.

There were gemstones, including snowflake obsidian. I found myself noticing the details around the practice: the texture, the stillness, the feeling of being invited to pay attention without being told what I had to feel. That distinction matters. An experience can be meaningful without requiring everyone to describe it the same way.

Then a storm came through. Weather has no interest in our neatly arranged agenda, and this storm seemed to press a reset button on the retreat’s focus. We paused. We adjusted. The day shifted, and we shifted with it.

That became part of the retreat, not an interruption to be edited out. Balance is not always a serene person in a serene room. Sometimes it is recognizing that the conditions changed and returning to what is here now. The storm gave us that reminder in a very direct voice.

Day Four: Breaking Bread and Walking Steady

Our last day began with a closing meditation. Then came the Confirmation Cards, read aloud into the circle. My pull was: “You’re Already Doing It.” The reminder was to stop overthinking, keep facing my true north, and work my light.

I know. The universe could have sent that note directly to my inbox, but it chose a card. Fair enough.

We followed with the bread ceremony: pumpkin spice loaf and hand-churned sweet cream butter with cinnamon, passed around the circle. It was simple and grounding, and it gave our intentions something warm and tangible to travel with. A shared loaf asks very little of anybody besides showing up and passing it along.

And there we were: me, the practitioners, my family, and the people who had made the room what it was. Healing was not moving in only one direction. I came to hold space, but I was held, too. The care went both ways, and I am grateful for that.

At some point, we gave ourselves a name: the test subjects. It fit the spirit of trying new things together: curious, honest, and willing to see what might help. Not a grand scientific announcement; just a funny, fitting name for a group that had been showing up, participating, observing, and learning.

The Road Home

When it was time to go, I led everyone back to I-75. Then I grabbed a slurpee, because a person can have a meaningful retreat and still appreciate a cold drink on the road. Both things can be true.

And then came the lucky-charm chapter. Uncle Milton was my lucky charm, and I won seven dollars on scratch-offs and dollars on the Powerball, too. To be clear, this was a victory lap, not a windfall story. We are celebrating the win we actually got, with our feet still on the ground and our expectations behaving themselves.

Four days, one intention, and a long drive home with a slurpee and a little extra luck in the story. Soul of the Valley is complete, but the practice continues: returning to the moment, making room for joy, and letting care move in more than one direction. Thank you for walking the journey with me.

If you want to keep that feeling going, there is fbroasters.com and the Bookshop waiting without making a fuss about it.