Held by the Wind, Watched by the Heron
A daylong meditation retreat in nature with Mark Coleman
About a month ago, after a particularly profound experience at a Vipassana retreat, I found myself seeking further ways to deepen my mindfulness practice. I wanted something that extended beyond the cushion — something that brought awareness into the world, into movement, into nature.
That’s when I came across Mark Coleman. A longtime meditation teacher, he led retreats centered on mindfulness in the natural world. When I saw that he was leading a daylong retreat just a few miles away, along the rugged coastline of the Marin Headlands, I signed up without hesitation.
On the day of the retreat, I arrived early, not knowing exactly what to expect. This was my first guided meditation retreat in nature, and my first experience with Mark. I was excited to see what the day would bring, and curious about how it might unfold.
The invitation email had made it clear: the retreat would happen rain or shine. Even a week before, the weather had been unpredictable — a toss-up between warm sunlight and a day spent wrapped in mist and rain. But when the morning came, it was stunning. The wind was cool and blustery, rolling in from the sea, but the sun was warm in that unmistakable way of early spring. Scattered clouds on the horizon, the slow crawl of fog beginning to engulf the San Francisco coast just south of where we stood.
At the edge of the parking lot, the small group of participants gathered, exchanging quiet introductions. When Mark arrived, he offered a few words about how the day would unfold, then invited us into noble silence — a quiet presence meant to bring us deeper into ourselves and into the world around us. No small talk, no casual conversations. Just an openness to being here.
We walked together up the bluffs, the Pacific stretching endlessly below. After a short distance, we stepped off the trail onto a flat stretch of earth, perched above the ocean. The landscape was breathtaking: wild, raw, and expansive. This coastal range of the Marin Headlands was a place that already felt like home to me. I grew up along the Northern California coast, and there is something deeply familiar about the way the land meets the sea here — the cliffs, the wind, the rugged beauty of it all.
But while it felt like home to me, I knew that my European ancestors had not arrived here as guests. The Marin Headlands, for over 13,000 years, was home to the Coast Miwok people, who lived in deep relationship with this land. European colonization, less than 300 years ago, reshaped their existence and the land itself. There is no undoing that history, but there is something important about acknowledging it — about remembering that this place held lives, stories, and traditions long before we stood on it today.
Beyond the history, the land itself was alive. It was spring, and the world seemed to know it. Rolling green hills, clusters of oaks, bay, and fir trees. Here on the bluffs, the twisted silhouettes of cypress trees. Everything seemed to be undulating. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the sharp scent of salt and earth. Beneath us, the ground was scattered with small, smooth pebbles — water-worn and rounded. But at this height, the ocean had never reached. How had they arrived here? The land kept its own quiet mysteries.
Mark, taking in the morning, remarked that on a day like this, his focus wouldn’t be on equanimity in the face of discomfort — he’d save that for a cold and rainy retreat. Instead, today was about cultivating joy, about playfulness — about rekindling our connection with nature, recognizing the ease of awareness, and stepping outside the patterns of our habitual mind.
The Ease of Awareness
After carrying our cushions up the hill, and settling in to the spot where we would spend most of the day, we turned our attention to Mark. He welcomed us and, after a brief moment to ground ourselves, he gave us an unexpected instruction:
"For the next 20 seconds, drop all effort. Stop trying to be mindful. Let your attention go. Let yourself be unaware."
It was counterintuitive. A guided meditation retreat, and the first thing we were asked to do was to not be mindful. To not focus on awareness.
For 20 seconds, we sat. Letting the wind rush past us. Letting the mind wander wherever it wanted.
When time was up, Mark asked us what we noticed.
Some people spoke about how they let the wind make them feel colder. Others mentioned how different it felt to sit here in nature rather than at a desk.
I shared that it reminded me of someone saying, "Whatever you do, don’t think of a pink elephant." A few people laughed at the thought. It was impossible not to be aware.
And that was Mark’s point: Awareness is always here, always present.
I loved this way of opening the day. So often, mindfulness is framed as something to achieve — a serious, disciplined focus. But Mark was pointing at something much simpler: awareness is easy, if we let it.
By the end of the first sitting meditation, I was noticing something else, something not as easy. I was noticing how completely asleep my right leg had gone. According to my mind, that slight pain in my foot quickly became the most interesting thing in the world. Ah, yes. The great wisdom of meditation: noticing whatever arises.
So I noticed. Yep. Foot’s asleep. Noticing. Noticing.
It was a relief when Mark invited us to stretch our legs. I walked up the hill, shaking off the numbness. As I crested the top, the wind picked up, and with it, a sharp, fresh aliveness. My whole body woke up.
We returned to our seats for a second sitting. I was grateful for the chance to shift positions — only to find that, within minutes, my other leg had fallen asleep. Apparently, my body had developed a newfound talent: shutting down circulation at will. I sat with it, but I was also starting to wonder about something else: Was it my shoes that were causing this? Should I take them off?
Something about meditating in shoes… I wasn’t used to it. In a meditation hall, removing shoes was an unspoken rule. But here, out in nature, the expectation wasn’t as clear. Would it be weird to suddenly go barefoot? Was I overthinking this? (Yes! Yes I was). Clearly, this was something else to notice.
And then, as if he had read my mind, Mark spoke: "If anyone feels called to, you’re welcome to take off your shoes and feel the earth beneath your feet."
Yes. Exactly that! And why had I been waiting for permission?
The simple act of taking off my shoes became an invitation — not just to feel the ground, but to move beyond the usual serious nature of mindfulness. To be in touch with the wild — to play in it, as part of it.
How easy this all felt.
A Mollusk and an Ant
Between the sitting meditations, we took what Mark called a "wonder walk" — free time to meander, to observe, to simply be in the landscape without a destination in mind.
On the second “wonder walk,” instead of heading up the hill, I wandered down toward the ocean. Carefully, I climbed down the rocky edge, stepping onto the uneven stone. There was no sandy shore here — only jagged, weathered rock. Nowhere to stand but in the crevices between them, where the sea had carved its way in over time. The air was sharper, thick with salt, the sound of water crashing against stone filling the space around me.
Barnacles and mussels clung to the jagged rocks, their dark shells layered in tight, overlapping rows. This was their home. This was the reality they were used to. Every moment pummeled by massive waves, battered by the ocean’s force. And yet, they thrived here. This rough, unrelenting place wasn’t something to be endured — it was where they lived best.
I imagined myself as a mollusk, anchored to the rock, bracing against the tide. What would that existence feel like? Would I even know the waves as powerful or painful? Or would they simply be the world as it is?
A stanza from Pablo Neruda’s poem Enigmas surfaced in my mind:
You’ve asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet?
I reply, the ocean knows this.
You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell?
What is it waiting for?
I tell you it is waiting for time, like you.
I let the words settle in me for a moment before carefully making my way back up the rocky edge, testing each step as I climbed. As I crested the top, the landscape transformed.
Above the rocks, the land softened. The jagged edges gave way to a rolling hillside covered in green grass, clover, and patches of yellow wood sorrel. I stepped onto the earth barefoot, feeling the cool, damp softness against my skin. I flopped down in the grass, plucking a sorrel flower and nibbling the end — just as sour as I remembered it from childhood.
A small ant crawled over the contours of my hand. I watched it for a moment, then gently placed it back in the grass.
And then the contrast struck me.
So light, so fragile — the ant wouldn’t stand a chance just a few feet down the hill, where the waves pounded the rocks below. The same ocean that sustained the mussels would instantly drown the ant.
What one being might not survive, another requires for life.
I sat with that thought as the wind curled through the grass.
How was I not spending more time like this? I had forgotten the joy of being outdoors with no goal, no destination, no timeline. Just moving, noticing, being.
I thought about my kids. About how much I wanted to share this with them — to make time for more of this, just as much as they made time for screens and schedules.
And then, irony.
A bell chimed in the distance.
The gentle call back to structure, to rhythm, to what comes next.
I smiled as I stood up.
It was time for lunch.
A Visit From the Heron
After lunch, we scattered across the hillside — each of us moving into solitude in our own way. Some sat in quiet meditation, others stretched out in the grass, eyes closed, letting the sun warm their skin. A few dozed off entirely.
I felt drawn to movement. A few of us wandered along the shoreline, walking individually, immersed in our own contemplations.
I wanted to feel the sand beneath my feet.
From a distance, I could see a small stretch of coastline where sand softened the rocky shore, and I searched for a way down. But the cliff edge was too steep, the descent too uncertain.
Some things, we just have to let go.
I turned back toward the group, rejoining them just as Mark was preparing to open the next session. But before he could begin, something caught his attention.
A blue heron, descending the hill.
It moved with slow deliberation, stepping lightly in search of its next meal. As it crested the hill, it noticed us — pausing, evaluating, deciding. How close would it allow itself to come? Could it trust this group of silent figures sitting quietly on the land?
Mark pointed it out, breaking the silence with a story.
The last time he had seen a heron, it had caught a gopher. He had watched, transfixed, as the heron attempted to swallow the creature whole, the lump of its meal moving slowly down its long, slender throat. Five full minutes, he said. Nature, once again reminding us of the unbroken cycle of life and death.
We watched as this heron crept closer, each step considered, deliberate.
For a moment, I hesitated to pull out my phone, not wanting to break the stillness. But then I saw it — the heron standing there, framed against the sky, the moon hanging quietly above it.
I reached for my phone and took the picture.
Instantly, a flicker of regret.
Had I spoiled the moment? Had my instinct to capture overtaken my ability to be?
And yet, I was also glad. Glad to have an image to return to, to remind me of what this moment had felt like beyond just memory.
The heron was careful, measuring the space between hunger and trust. It did not want to get too close to us, but it also sensed food nearby.
In that moment, I understood.
We weren’t just watching nature.
We were in it, as it.
Immersed, not separate, no longer visitors, but part of the vast, unfolding belonging.
Something stirred in me then, words forming in my mind, arranging themselves like the rhythm of the wind. I couldn’t write it down in the moment, but I knew it wasn’t lost. It would return when I was ready to receive it.
Much later, when I reflected on the day, the words took form…
At the Edge of the World, Spring Arrives
The earth breathes before us,
and we breathe it in.
The hills rise, slow and gentle,
rousing from their slumber.Unhurried, the sun leans into the land,
spilling warmth over the grass,
inviting the wonder of bare toes
against the long-forgotten ground.We gather, we sit,
cradled by pebbles, unshaken by time.
Stones, shaped by vanished waters,
settled into a waiting home.Deliberate and still,
a heron watches below the moon.
It waits, as we wait,
measuring the space between hunger and trust.As we rise from the earth’s quiet embrace,
the wind, an old traveler, returning home,
whispers what it has always known:
“you belong to this changing world.”For a moment, we are not apart from it.
We are not Visitor, nor Witness,
but part of the great belonging.We are here.
We are free.
We are awake.
Trusting the Wind
Nearing the end of the retreat, we gathered our belongings and began a careful walk up the hillside for the final sitting. We followed the trail north along the bluffs. The sun, now past its peak, had begun its slow descent toward the sea. The wind had grown stronger, pressing against our backs as we walked.
As we sat for the final time, Mark spoke of the wind as something we are so often averse to — how we resist it, how it can feel intrusive or unsettling.
As he said the words, I realized something.
On another day, I might have been irritated by this wind.
But now? It was livening, awakening.
How could I carry that feeling into other days? Into the moments when I would normally find myself frustrated by the wind, rather than alive in it?
After the sitting, I walked the length of a nearby labyrinth. One that was faint and many of the rocks missing to define the edges. Without the clear cut boundaries, it was difficult to know where to walk, perhaps mirroring our real existence. I circled back a few times, adjusting my course, before finally reaching the center.
A brief moment of gratitude.
Then, I was drawn to the cliffs edge. The wind called. It surged.
So strong, it nearly blew me over.
I welcomed it.
Below me, the ocean stretched endlessly, dissolving into the far-off horizon where water blends with sky. But between me and that horizon, the drop was sheer. A massive, almost vertical descent to the rocks and crashing waves below.
To keep my balance, I had to lean into the wind.
In that instant, I realized — if the wind suddenly stopped, I might lose my balance entirely.
This wasn’t a small misstep on a hiking trail.
Falling from this height would be fatal.
For a split second, I considered stepping back.
But I didn’t.
I trusted the wind to hold. I don’t know why, but I knew it would.
And it did.
I stretched my arms wide and let it wake me up.
The force of it brought tears to my eyes. Not from emotion, but from its sheer power.
When my skin could take no more, I stepped back from the edge.
Slowly.
With reverence.
The wind had given me something.
How precious this moment. How tenuous this life. How much we must remember that this flicker of existence is a gift.
Let it remind us:
We are here.
We are free.
We are awake.
Leaving, But Not Leaving
As we gathered back together for the final time, Mark asked us to form into groups of three. Introduce ourselves. Share a few things that had stood out to us during the day.
At first, I hesitated.
I had been enjoying the noble silence. There was freedom in not needing to speak, the way the quiet had allowed the world to expand. But the silence had done its job. The moment it was lifted, I found myself genuinely wanting to hear how others had experienced the day.
The two others in my group were familiar faces. Two gentlemen that I had spoken with briefly before the retreat began, and we slipped easily into conversation.
The common theme was one of gratitude and ease.
Gratitude for the ease of the day.
For the ease of noticing beauty.
For the ease of simply being present in nature.
When we returned to the larger circle, Mark invited each group to share something that had come up in their discussions — what they had noticed, what had stayed with them the most.
I spoke about playfulness. How this day reminded me to be at ease in nature, to let go of the weight of responsibility, to remember that I don’t always have to be the hyper-vigilant parent scanning the horizon for danger.
Sometimes, it’s enough to just be.
The walk back to the parking lot was filled with the gentle hum of conversation — a contrast to the silence that had held us all day.
But the talking felt easy.
There was no pressure, no expectation. We were just fellow wanderers who had shared an experience, now sharing a few words before parting ways.
New connections made.
Real humans, enjoying this human experience.
Apart, yet together.
In nature. As nature.
I had planned to take a Lyft back, but cell reception was poor, and the app kept cycling through drivers with no success.
One of the other participants noticed my struggle and offered me a ride. It was such a simple act of kindness, and yet, in that moment, it felt like an extension of the day itself. A small, effortless generosity, a reminder of how easily we can support one another.
On the drive north, we talked.
She had just been accepted as a teacher-in-training at Spirit Rock. We reveled in our shared excitement about Buddhism and meditation.
We compared our first silent retreat experiences — both profound, both life-changing.
But then she added something else.
"Not all retreat experiences will be this easy," she said. "Some offer a much deeper opportunity to sit with adversity. Those can be the most enlightening — the ones that really show us where our edges are."
It stayed with me.
There is something deeply beautiful about presence in a serene moment — sitting with ‘what is’ when ‘what is’ happens to be peaceful, gentle, and still.
But sitting with ‘what is’ when it’s uncomfortable, restless, or painful — that, perhaps, is where the deep insight lies.
It stirred my curiosity further.
Where might this investigation into self and existence lead?
And then, a final whisper from Neruda’s poem came to mind:
I walked around as you do, investigating
the endless star,
and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked,
the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
If This Resonates With You…
There’s something about stepping outside — not just into nature, but as nature.
You don’t need a retreat to experience it.
Just find a quiet place.
Pause.
Breathe.
Notice.
And if you feel drawn to deepening this practice, there are so many ways to explore.
Mark Coleman teaches retreats like this one around the world, weaving together mindfulness and the natural world. His books, including Awake in the Wild and From Suffering to Peace, explore these themes further. You can find more about his work at markcoleman.org.
This was just one day.
But the invitation — to be present, to be free, to be awake — is always here.
This is so vivid and alive 🙏