oh, edinburgh.

I saved up credit card points for three years and spent them all a first class seat to Scotland. I post a few stories on instagram and instantly feel guilty for flying first class. Technically, I didn’t pay for this seat, but I can feel the “must be nice” comments coming. I try to not feel guilty and enjoy this probably-never-will-happen-again experience to get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up in London and take the train ride I’ve been dreaming about…

We land in London, right on time, and I book it to the underground to get to King’s Cross station. An hour later, I’m eating vanilla cardamom pancakes and drinking a latte at Caravan. I have an hour until my train to Edinburgh leaves and I am feeling really grateful for past Kristen’s meticulous planning. She planned out every stop, every train, every coffee, because she knew Jet Lag Kristen would not want to make decisions today.

By the time I make it to my train, I’m ready to sleep. I didn’t get much on the plane. But I meet a man from London named Maxwell and we spend most of the train ride chatting. We talk about his late wife, his children, his new grandson, faith, church, travel, life after trauma, living with grief. He is soft spoken and cheeky and I enjoy our conversations. We shake hands at my stop and as I get off the train, I think, Traumatized people must be energetically drawn to each other because what other explanation is there for my introverted, resting “don’t talk to me” face, always colliding with these stories? I whisper a quick prayer of gratitude because although it can feel heavy sometimes, being seen and understood is holy, and I’m grateful anytime it happens.

Later that night, Maxwell remembers the name of my book, looks me up on the internet, and sends me an email through my website. We hadn’t actually exchanged names on the train, so it’s nice to learn his and I tell him as much. Strange how much you can share with a stranger without even knowing their name, I write. I read his email from my hotel room in Edinburgh and I feel like my trip is off to a beautiful start.

Our airbnb host graciously lets me check in early. My friend Kellyn has been in Edinburgh for a few days already so we drop our stuff off at the flat and head out to get some gifts for everyone. (Brownies + Scotland pins.) Kellyn and I met at a retreat I cohosted a few years ago and we’ve remained friends. I’m grateful she’s on this trip. I’m realizing how important it is for me to have someone around I don’t have to mask for. But I’m also learning that the women who come on my trips are all this way. The mask falls quickly, but I always forget. Kellyn’s presence is a safety net for me, but I won’t need it for long.

Everyone arrives and we very quickly relax into each other’s company. We’ve been chatting in a group text for months now and have all met over zoom, so it feels like the awkward introductions are mostly out of the way. I head out to get groceries and hear the sounds of laughter as I climb down the flat’s stairs.

Itinerary for today :
- late breakfast to give our bodies some extra time to adjust to the time change
- explore the city together
- afternoon workshop
- dinner together at Hot Toddy’s

We spend the next few days in writing workshops, museums, dinners, and coffee shops. By the time our free writing day rolls around, everyone just wants to spend time together or to explore, so instead of sitting in a cafe writing all day as planned, everyone groups up or goes off on their own. Some hike Arthur’s seat, some go to the beach, some write in cafes or at the flat.

I find myself by a river in Dean’s Village and get coffee at a tiny cafe. It’s a nice break from the crowds. As I walk into a book store, I see a lady wearing the same pair of pants as me. I walk by her and tell her we match and we look at each other’s pants and laugh. It’s not often you see someone wearing orange corduroys.

Later on, the nine of us meet up for dinner and I’ve messed up the reservation. We went to the wrong location, but thankfully, the restaurant holds our table and we hop in a couple of ubers. We get to Piggs and the male waiters are wearing kilts and I really appreciate that (maybe a little too much after a glass of wine). Everyone is fully loosened up now. We swap secrets and swear words over tapas.

On our last day together, we go to church at St. Giles. Yesterday, I collided with an African church’s pentecostal worship service on the square and instead of feeling triggered or cynical, I felt drawn to it. I cried as I watched them freely dance. I sang along, I clapped, I laughed. It was comforting to see a group of people demonstratively worshiping and to fully believe their sincerity. But this morning is a different experience. It’s Easter Sunday in a cathedral and the worship is just as sincere in its liturgy and rhythms. After church, we split up. Some get tattoos (I’ve already pierced my nose on this trip so I skip the tattoo this time), some go home for a rest. We have dinner together at the apartment and have one last workshop.

We talk about sorting through the noise of other people’s opinions and discerning what parts of your story to tell when it brushes up against other people’s lives. How do we tell the truth without harm? What are the ethics of storytelling? How much responsibility do we have to protect other people? Do we fracture ourselves and cause harm to ourselves when we curate our stories for other people’s comfort?

There are tears.
And there is so much laughter.

After the workshop, we follow Shiloh, the songwriter of the group, to the pub where we watch her and other singer/songwriters perform. When Shiloh sings, the pub gets quiet. Someone points out to me that strangers are crying. So are we. We cheer for her like she’s our kid, as if we had anything to do with her talent. We feel like she’s ours now. Belonging is a strange thing. A week ago, we barely knew each other and now we’re crying, cheering, teasing, laughing. Not everyone here is a Christian. Not everyone here is an experienced writer. Not everyone here is American. None of it matters. We’re family now.

We stay late into the night, way past the bed times of those of us with early flights. We laugh all the way home, and up the stairs into the apartment, and across the house while we pack up and clean and get ready to go.

When all is settled, we gather in the living room one more time and Dana tells us her harrowing story of almost getting hit by a bus. She says something about having PTSD and the psychologist of the group says, “No, remember right now it’s just PTS, after six months, you get the D.” There’s a pause in the air and the immature of the group (me) burst out laughing. We’re delirious. As everyone is laughing and sharing stories I think about how sad it is that with trips like these, by the time everyone is unmasked and safe, it’s time to leave. I wish there were a way to get to the energy of the last night faster.

After everyone is home and settled, I browse through the group photo drive and found a note that someone has written and taken a photo of. I tap through stories and posts on instagram that the other women are sharing and I bury their words deep into my nervous system and try to metabolize them. There is something so special about this work that I do and the people who are drawn to it. It’s bigger than me, it’s holy. It’s sacred, beautiful, relational, healing. And while I know that it’s an extension of me, and something that I have worked to build, and have been gifted to do, it also feels like it’s for me. And I’m grateful.

Edinburgh, you were a gift.
I’ll see you again in October for round two.
There are two spots left, if you want to join us. 🤍

xoxo,
Kristen

details for the fall writing retreat are right here