Before the Poem, Comes the Pause

I set out on my first poetry road trip in Camélia, the minivan I transformed into a tiny camper after my toddlers became teenagers. I drove off for my first solo camping trip with a blank notebook and a heart full of expectation.

I imagined words pouring onto the page. Songs arriving with the sunrise. Poems waiting patiently for me somewhere beneath the oaks at Malibu Creek State Park.

Instead, I found… silence.

At first I wondered if I had lost something. Had the poems left? Had life become too busy, too practical, too left-brained for inspiration to find me again?

Then I realized I was asking my soul to sprint immediately after running a marathon.

Life had been moving in one direction at full speed. Work. Decisions. Family. Responsibilities. Even beautiful work can leave us rushing.

A train cannot simply reverse direction at full speed. It has to slow down. It has to stop.

So instead of trying harder to write, I gave myself permission to pause.

I watched the sun rise while a small pot of tea warmed on my camp stove.

At sunset, I stirred soup over a tiny butane flame.

I listened.

Not for poems.

For myself.

I listened to my body.

I listened to the thoughts that had been trying to catch up with me.

I listened to the creek as it kept moving without urgency. The trees that never seemed to wonder whether they were growing fast enough.

And somewhere in that listening, the world began reflecting pieces of me back to myself.

In the mountains, I found my sense of security.

In the campfire, I recognized passion and creativity.

In the steady rhythm of the ocean waves, I remembered my will. My ability to shape a life instead of simply reacting to one.

In texts and phone calls from family and dear friends, I rediscovered love and belonging.

Singing along with the folk songs and old hippie music that have become companions on my journeys, I found my voice again.

Then, in the silence itself, something unexpected happened.

Even my thoughts grew quiet.

The constant narration faded.

I closed my eyes as the breeze brushed across my skin, and for a few precious moments there was no separation between me and the world around me.

Just breath.

Just presence.

Just enoughness.

It felt like coming home.

Not to a place.

To myself.

I’ve spent much of my life strengthening my left brain. Planning. Solving. Leading. Producing.

This trip reminded me that the right brain doesn’t respond to pressure. It responds to spaciousness.

Creativity isn’t manufactured.

It emerges.

Healing doesn’t happen because we force it.

It happens because we finally become still enough to notice what has been waiting for us all along.

As I drove home, I realized this wasn’t just a camping trip.

It was a glimpse of what I hope every woman experiences in the retreat I’m currently developing.

Not a vacation or escape from life.

A return to it.

A chance to reset.

To rebalance.

To remember who you are beneath the noise.

Sometimes the most productive thing we can do is stop long enough for our hearts to catch up with our lives.

If your life has been moving so quickly that you’ve forgotten the sound of your own thoughts, perhaps you don’t need more motivation.

Maybe you need a pause.

There comes a time when our busy lives can wait.to open a space for possibility. The rest in the music. The white space in the painting.The pause before the poem.

Sometimes the silence is the work of art to savor.

As I packed up Camélia and pointed her toward home, another thought quietly took root. 

I realized I wasn’t just discovering what I needed. I was discovering what I hope to create for others one day: a welcoming place where women can slow down long enough to hear themselves again, remember who they are beneath the noise, and return home with quieter minds, lighter hearts, and steadier souls.