It had been a challenging time to say the least – starting with my sweetie returning from a 13-day retreat in Costa Rica with a special souvenir…covid. As she dutifully wrapped up a long week in quarantine, I scrambled for a weekend of coaching and teaching at a Songwriting Retreat in Corbett, Oregon.

That’s When I Got the Call.

A day and a half before departing and deep in a songwriting session of my own, my dad left me a brief message. My uncle Mike had suddenly passed away. My internal clock stopped – as it does with news like that. The timing was rich. Michael Mason was a songwriter himself. He was also, to put it mildly, a bit of a trickster so it almost felt like he was messing with me. Adding to the impact, both his former wife, my aunt Mimey, and their son Willy are also songwriters. So this wasn’t just a death. It sliced into my whole origin story as a creative person. If it weren’t for that wing of the family, I likely would not be a songwriter at all – let alone run off to teach and coach others on the beauty and structure of the craft.

Fast Forward to the Event.

Within one day of arriving, palpable themes of grief and healing had emerged. Many of the participants dove headfirst into songs of deep loss: losing love, losing pets, losing confidence. And of course, songs about family members losing, or having just lost their lives. From our lofty perch high above the mighty Columbia River, the land would follow these threads with a soft, rolling lament. A slow mist traversed the hills of mighty Fir, Oak and lichen-draped Maple. We sang songs. The whole scene came thickly crowned in grays. As fellow instructor Sara Tone reminded us, these lands and waters are made of songs. Since time immemorial Indigenous people have honored these big land songs, and joined in gratitude and celebration. We stood quietly on the hillside and took that in.  

Nothing Like Grief and Loss to Nurture Creativity.

As the masterful and tragic songwriter Townes Van Zandt famously said, “There are only two kinds of music, the blues and Zippety Do Dah.” The most impactful aspect of the retreat for me was a willingness of the attendees to enter into emotionally difficult material. Sure, there were breakup songs. What would the world be without those? But I’m talking about the kind of songs that make it nearly impossible to get through a performance without falling apart – the kind that bring the trembles and shakes and afterward, the singer will take all the hugs they can get. The student concerts included dozens of these. Often, it was the first song that a performer had ever played in public – or even the first they had ever wrote! That, my friends, is courage. 

If, as a member of the staff and the audience, I was to maintain some neutral or stoic demeanor, I failed. I was a complete puddle on multiple occasions. With my uncle’s passing still so raw, it was cathartic and healing. As if Mike’s death wasn’t enough, a musical collaborator, sweetheart and touring partner of years past, the brilliant Rachel Harrington, lost her only son just last fall. He was also a songwriter and a performer. I don’t pretend to have a single clue about that depth of grief. But I do know that if we don’t fully attend to these things somehow – and to each other as we go through them – then what’s the point of it all? 

Furthering the Work.

From a distance, it could be easy to view The Songwriter Soiree Retreat as a lighthearted creative camp for adults – a place to learn a few tricks and meet some new friends – and it was that. But what really happened plunged us far deeper. At the very opening of the weekend, the main organizer Robin Jackson playfully encouraged everybody to rip up their “cool cards” – those so-called credentials that keep us from really getting to know each other in our full complexity. Sometimes – however unconsciously – they can also inflate the distance between, say, teacher and student or professional and amateur. I certainly have been guilty of this myself, but I’m all for ripping up that old card.

One of the most touching moments for me was when a participant came up to me in the final hours of the weekend and said something like,”When I first arrived here, I was standing alone and you were the first person to come up to me and say hello. I just wanted to tell you…that meant so much to me.” It got me thinking about all the times I could have done a kind and simple thing like that, but didn’t. 

More of This, Please.

With more gatherings like The Songwriter Soiree Retreat, it is my hope that we can all begin to cut through some of these old blocks and practice a deeper presence with one another’s hesitations, struggles and pain. We may just experience an unexpected kind of joy and inspiration alongside of life’s brutal losses. If we truly want to heal the widespread wounds of disconnection and isolation, it will require a full and medicinal dose of engaged connection. I sure got mine at this event. 

To wrap it up, I will quote the hit song by Hal David and the recently deceased Burt Bacharach. This work is surely…“what the world needs now.” 

Hey, call it poppy cliché, but now that melody and message will be in your head for a week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here’s a clip of a song written by my uncle Mike I used to hear as a kid (performed by his son Willy)

Here’s a clip of a song by Rachel Harrington and her late son Mandolin Hooper

Tags: Grief, Healing, Oregon, Songwriting Retreat