Please send email to firstname.lastname@example.org letting us know why you want to attend. This is an intimate retreat. We can’t wait to have you! This is Jen’s 5th year doing Manifesting Under The Tuscan Sun! Please specify if you want to attend summer (June 27-July 3rd) or fall 2015 (Sep 26-Oct 3rd.)
So I did what I always do: I danced. Continue Reading…
As a red-blooded American girl I grew up with a, pardon the pun, bone deep fear of cemeteries. My cousin Marcia, six years older than I, told me there were skeletons under the beds in the big old two-story house where I lived with my parents, my grandparents and my aunt Vivian. It was a decidedly spooky house to begin with, with old unused rooms and dusty beds never slept in, wearing the same sheets they had for decades. There were shelves full of books, unread in my lifetime and deep, dark closets that went to who knows where under stairways and slanted eaves. Remnants of the years my family spent as ranchers were present throughout this house: kitchen towels made from feed sacks and tack for horses, tools for marking and castrating cattle, which looked like torture devices to me.
It was twilight, always, there. Electric lights were used mostly at night. They hung on chains as small, pear-shaped pendants, or under one-bulb glass shades. Wood frame windows, with layer upon layer of peeling paint let the sun in, but just barely. The pomegranate bushes and apricot trees, untrimmed and old, bounced back most of the light before it entered those windows, so the sunlight happily found another direction to shine, rather than into this old, dusty house.
Inside the dark, foreboding closets there were wood-bound metal trunks and dusty coats hanging, and who knew what lay behind them. My father, a kind man by nature, once disappeared into one of those dark, untraveled closets under a stair with a two by four, and came out with a dead rat and a bloody plank.
By Becky A. Benson.
When the last remaining breezes of the tepid summer air turn unabashedly crisp and begin to fill with the recognizable scent of colorful leaves bidding their trees adieux we know that Autumn is on its way. These things, and so many others during this season bring a great sense of nostalgia to my heart and mind. The warm pleasures of draping yourself in layers of sweaters and scarves and of taking in the aroma of baked apples and pumpkin-everything blankets us in comfort. A literal season of change is underway.
In the Fall I wax nostalgic more than any other time of year. October is the month in which my youngest daughter, Miss Elliott was born. She too brought many changes into our lives. Our beautiful, blessed being, she was a teacher. My greatest teacher. She taught us what it meant to love unconditionally. She taught us what it meant to persevere. She taught us that a life, no matter how short or how small, was valuable, important and beautiful. She also taught us how to say goodbye. Continue Reading…
I got sick as I was leading my retreat in Italy a couple years ago. Really sick.
Sick like you get once every ten years sick, sick like you forget what that kind of sick feels like until you actually are that sick kind of sick.
I lost my voice and the left side of my face swelled up. I couldn’t inhale without coughing out green mucus and I wanted to vomit every twenty minutes. I couldn’t breathe through my nose and my throat was so sore it felt like I was swallowing sand every time I so much as opened my mouth.
So here I am in Italy, leading a retreat with twenty-five people and sick like Hell has frozen over.
So what do I do?
I bargain with God.
Please God. Please if you help me get through teaching this ninety minute class without dying or passing out I will never again ______ or I promise I will ________.
I am not religious at all but I realize when I get that desperate, when I feel as if my life is truly on the line in some way, I realize, in hindsight, that I think if I promise to be “good” for the rest of my life then nothing bad like this will happen to me again. Continue Reading…
Note from Jen Pastiloff, founder of The Manifest-Station: I was the guest speaker at Canyon Ranch in Lenox and Tucson this month. When I was at the Tucson location I met Kenny Gould when he came to my Manifestation Workshop there. He told me he was a writer. I don’t often get men at my workshops so I tend to get kind of excited when they show up and really commit to being there fully. Kenny did. He then went home and sent me something he had just written. A short story. I loved it and decided to publish. Here’s to more of us declaring who we are in the world. xo jen
By Kenny Gould.
Last week I moved to Berkeley, California, to a beautiful two-story blue house where I live with thirteen other people. In the mornings, we chant and pray and meditate, and then we walk down to the farm where we all work. After communal dinners, I like to sit on one of the ratty old couches under the pear tree in the back yard and drink tea.
The other evening, as I sat on the couch and wrote a poem about weasels, I heard a voice say, “Hey,” and I looked up. It belonged to a robot, about the size of a filing cabinet, which sat on the couch across from me.
“Hey,” I said back.
The robot looked uncomfortable. “The Zorgans said-”
I sighed. Once upon a time the Zorgans had hyperslipped into the space between my dresser and my wall and asked me to share my thoughts on creativity, and I, like a fool, answered them. Now hundreds of different species insist on visiting me with their questions. Continue Reading…