It was raining. I went anyway.

I have a vague memory of sleeping in a tent as a child.

I believe I was with my dad and my older brother. Most of my childhood memories include my brother somewhere. Memories of my dad when I was young are more sparse. I hadn't even realized this particular memory was still in there until I started writing about sleeping in a tent.

I remember the yard. It belonged to my dad's younger brother. They had an above-ground swimming pool.

I remember ants.

The pool and the ants were somehow alarming.

That's the problem with memories, especially early ones. They're fragments. Or our brains fill in the gaps with information that may or may not have actually happened. There's no little bracket around the invented part saying, Your brain made this bit up.

You just remember.

My experiences with tents have otherwise been limited. I didn't actually set one up until I bought a tent for my sons' Cub Scout campout. Yes, I brought them. No, I hadn't considered that I might be the only woman there.

My daughter was there, too. She was a more attentive Cub Scout than any of the others.

The tent was relatively easy to assemble.

Or perhaps I read the instructions.

We'll never know.

Over the last year, being surrounded by trees has led me to explore "tree bathing." I took a course, read the manual, learned about terpenes and how trees communicate, and about the importance of simply being with them.

Somewhere in all of that was the suggestion that I spend a night among the trees.

Technically, this is my backyard.

But our backyard is kind of big.

And there is wildlife.

I liked the idea of a digital detox, artificial-light detox, a night of silence, and a deeper relationship with this land.

I was intrigued.

I was also hesitant.

The hesitation wasn't about running water or using the bathroom outside. We lose power regularly here in Maine. I've adapted.

It was the coyotes.

And, if I'm honest, my limited experience sleeping outside.

I realized the only way through the hesitation was through it.

I wasn't going to think myself into a different feeling.

I've learned that thinking can become an excellent excuse. And I am exceptionally good at thinking things through.

Almost to perfection.

It's how I'm wired.

Sometimes I need to stop thinking and simply act.

So Rob set up the large bell tent in our orchard.

I had told him I wanted to sleep outside. I had not given him a timeline.

For a week, I told myself:

I'm going out tonight.

And then I made another excuse.

I'll start fresh tomorrow.

The tent had been sitting there for a week. I kept thinking about what I needed to bring, what might happen, whether I should be farther from the house, whether the coyotes would be interested in me, whether I was really ready.

At one point, I decided the tent was too close to the house.

Which, given that my primary concern was coyotes, seems like an impressive piece of mental gymnastics.

Apparently, my brain had plenty of material.

Then I found myself with an unexpected free day.

It was raining.

I decided I was going anyway.

At some point, rain became just another excuse—and I had already used quite enough of those.

So I packed.

Food in a modern insulated picnic basket. My altar. Candles. My hearing aids and charging case. My phone in airplane mode. A mattress—because apparently this wasn't going to be quite as rugged as my childhood memories suggested. Rob's idea.

Bedding. Pillows. My journal.

And me.

Finally, I took the leap and went outside.

Me, my stuff, and a tent in my backyard.

Because of the rain, I had to keep most of the tent closed. I was grateful it was waterproof.

It was not, however, humidity-proof.

I asked the ancestors of the land if they would allow me to stay there overnight—to be with them.

I sprinkled offerings around the tent, giving back what I had collected from the land, along with birdseed and dried corn.

Inside, I opened sacred space.

I wrote in my journal.

Then I fell asleep.

When I woke, I spent time in silence. I did journey work. I communicated with the ancestors of the land. I told them about my pilgrimage and asked what needed to be done to complete it and the land healing.

I laid out tarot cards and read the tiny print in the guidebooks by the dim light of a tea candle.

I went outside once.

It was pitch black.

Nothing happened.

I went back inside.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this, I noticed something I hadn't expected.

I was peaceful.

Not dramatically peaceful. Nothing mystical descended upon the bell tent. I simply felt...quiet.

I wasn't particularly uncomfortable. I wasn't particularly afraid. What I experienced didn't match what I had imagined.

Without the distraction of electronics, I also realized how much sleep my body and brain actually wanted. I've been navigating a lot of change lately—moods, changes in my body, changes in my energy. Naps have become commonplace; the days I don't take one are now the exception.

My brain, of course, is always willing to offer another interpretation:

Struggle. Failure. Something isn't right.

But maybe not.

Maybe, like my grandson Elias, I'm growing.

That night I was alone with the land. With the trees. With the rhubarb—the Goddesses do live there, after all. The mother Walnut Tree. The father Maples. And the owl who lives in our south-facing thicket.

Really, how many people get to say they live among thickets?

I slept.

I woke.

I listened.

And I felt more with the land rather than simply occupying it.

Mostly, it was just a night outside. A time to be quiet, to look inward, and to notice.

And perhaps that was the biggest surprise: how out of the ordinary the experience was—and how completely ordinary it was.

I had spent weeks thinking about it. Imagining coyotes, discomfort, rain, darkness, and everything else my brain could manufacture.

And then I simply went outside.

Maybe that's part of the work I find myself doing, too.

There can be extraordinary power in changing something. But sometimes the change doesn't arrive dramatically.

Sometimes it looks like stepping outside.

Sometimes it looks like sleeping.

Sometimes it looks like listening long enough to notice what was there all along.

And sometimes, the extraordinary is simply this:

We stop thinking about doing something and finally do it.

Maybe that's also why I keep creating opportunities for people to gather, make things, learn, and experience something a little outside the ordinary.

I know how easy it is to be curious about something and then hesitate. To think about going, making, trying, gathering—and then decide you'll do it another time.

Sometimes another time is exactly right.

And sometimes, you just have to step outside.

If you've been curious about one of the gatherings or workshops at The River Runs Through, perhaps this is your invitation. You don't have to know exactly what you're looking for. You don't have to be particularly good at anything. You can simply be curious enough to come and see what happens.

The next Moon Gathering is August 31, with other workshops happening throughout the season.

Maybe you don't need to know why you're drawn to it. Maybe you just need to decide to go.