The Art of Release
Fall Harvest Retreat | October 1–4 | Boulder Canyon Retreat Center
There is a moment each autumn when the mountain begins to let go. The aspens turn brilliant gold, the air grows crisp, and the leaves that have spent an entire season gathering sunlight begin their descent toward the earth. There is no struggle in their falling, no clinging to what has been.
The trees do not resist the changing season. They release what they can no longer carry, trusting that beneath the coming stillness, life is already preparing to begin again. What if we, too, could learn to let go with such grace?
Autumn invites us into the sacred practice of release. Throughout the year, we accumulate so much more than we realize: responsibilities, expectations, unfinished conversations, disappointments, old identities, and the quiet grief of things that did not unfold as we had hoped. Some of what we carry once nourished us. Some of it protected us. And some of it has simply become too heavy to hold. The harvest is not only about gathering the fruits of our labor; it is also about discerning what is complete, what has served its purpose, and what we are finally ready to return to the earth.
Every time I think about grief, I always think of my pup Indra, who was not simply my best friend, but a true soul companion. I said goodbye to her while on my yearly Oaxaca pilgrimage two years ago, never imagining it would be the last time I would ever play and snuggle with her.
Everything seemed fine when I left, yet during a reading with a Mazatec healer, he kept looking at me and asking, “What is wrong with your heart?” I told him nothing was wrong. Later that same day, my dog sitter called to tell me that Indra was terribly sick. The veterinarians had discovered a large mass on her heart, and within hours, I was told she needed to be put down.
Thousands of miles away, I said goodbye to her over FaceTime, telling her again and again how deeply I loved her, my heart breaking because I could not hold her in those final moments. The people I was traveling with, alongside our Mazatec hosts, gathered beneath the great Mother Tree called Tulé outside Oaxaca City to pray for Indra and honor her life. Somehow, in the midst of an unbearable loss, I found myself held by community beneath this ancient tree, grieving my best friend.
Oaxaca has carried a bittersweetness for me ever since. Whenever I return, I feel as though Indra has somehow been woven into the land there, walking beside me with every step.
I used to joke with her, “Your daddy is a terrible little Buddhist,” because when it came to Indra, I had absolutely no interest in practicing nonattachment. I wanted her beside me forever.
And perhaps that is one of grief’s most profound teachings. To love anything deeply is to know that, eventually, we will be asked to release it. And yet the love itself remains. It changes shape and moves into the fabric of our being, into our bodies, our memories, and into the ordinary moments when we suddenly feel the presence of what we have lost.
I believe deeply in the power of ritual. Ritual gives our grief somewhere to go, it’s a place for our body, mind and spirit to express what words alone cannot hold. It creates a sacred container for honoring what has ended, tending what still aches, and allowing the love to remain even as we learn to release the form it once took.
The depth of our grief is, in so many ways, a reflection of the depth of our love. They are not opposites, but two sides of the same coin. We grieve because we have loved. What a beautiful way to honor our heart and to listen to what is ready to be released.
Here in the granite cradle of Boulder Canyon, the land becomes our teacher. Beneath the golden aspens, alongside the flowing river, and within the warmth of our ceremonial circle, we will create space for the profound inner work of letting go. Through sacred ceremony, somatic exploration, connection with the natural world, and the support of our community, we will listen to what is ready to be released. Like the leaves returning to the forest floor, even our endings can become nourishment for what comes next.