The view from our little retreat overlooking Central Park.

On the streets of New York City yesterday, I was astonished to find that the people around me were very, very different from when I used to visit in my 20s.

The people were calmer, nicer, much friendlier.

They weren’t rushing around as nearly as much as I had remembered them from the days when I would leave work at the World Bank in Washington and come to stay for a few days of socializing, partying and burning the candle at both ends.

Had New York really changed that much?

Maybe the city that never sleeps is a bit different these days – after all, the whole country is different, too.

But what I know is profoundly different is my experience of it and the mind I am bringing to it.

Whereas in the past I ran around and wanted to suck the marrow out of every moment in the Big Apple by doing it all, this trip is remarkably different.

Chinese and Indian philosophy are replete with the complementary wisdom of the energy of going out and forward into the world, and the deep need to retreat and withdraw. In Western culture, we are obsessed with the former, the yang energy of the world.

We worship the sun, energy, movement and going for it. We are all about doing. Americans are prone to this more than perhaps any other culture, and New Yorkers (of which I am one by birth and claim proudly) could be collectively called the poster-child for yang energy.

The mantra of yang is simple:

Go.

Do.

More.

But alongside that powerful yang energy (the kind you might find in a strenuous yoga posture like a sun salutation, for example), balance and harmony also require the other side. The darker, more still, more internalized side of life.

The yin quality of life. The being which balances and tempers the doing.

I have been humbled by the opportunity to explore this yin side by actively cultivating an intention to retreat on this trip in what could seem to be the most unlikely of spaces.

Rather than racing from the shops on Fifth Avenue to bars, I am savoring the chance to really appreciate the beauty of nature overlooking Central Park from my window as I write this. Instead of feeling the compulsive need to see and do it all right now, I am indulging in the sweet luxury of coaching my amazingly courageous clients and exploring the joys of mediation with them. In place of waking up with a hangover from spending a night out with a dear old friend I hadn’t seen in years, I linger on the tender memory of ducking out of the rain into St. Patrick’s Cathedral for a few moments to sit, pray, love in community.

As someone who has always loved to travel, I am experiencing the world in a far deeper way by intentionally cultivating opportunities for retreat.

Like many of my clients, I used to seek escape from life by acting out compulsively – eating, shopping, drinking, traveling, always running to the next thing under the imperious tyranny of His Majesty, King FOMO (Fear of Missing Out).

I am so excited to have learned a much, much better way to cultivate those opportunities for retreat (rather than escape) and to be able to share them.

There are so many ways to retreat, both at home and when travelling. It doesn’t have to be complicated.

You can curl up with a good book and rest for an hour when you come home from work rather than getting on the computer. You can do one yoga posture. You can meditate (try some here if you are looking to start or boost your practice). You can plan to join me in Greece this September for two powerful retreat opportunities that will give you a chance to reboot, recharge and reconnect, on an Aegean island and in a secluded olive grove. You can turn off your computer or your mobile right now, get out your journal and a pen, and write a few lines of poetry or doodle.

The wisdom of retreat is available to each of us in every moment. It’s our chance to get nourished and rest, before our lives break down and we are forced to by our health and other markers of how in alignment we may be living with our values.

And when we do retreat wisely, we go back into the world with something to give it. We fill up our cups, that we may have something with which to nourish others.

I love this quote from Anais Nin. So grateful that my dear writing coach Tammy gave this to me ... and that I used it!

Here we are once again with me wanting and needing to write, and being absolutely overwhelmed with the who, what, when, where and why.

Wanting to find the perfect practice.

“I will write for 1 hour every day first thing in the morning”, my brain spits out.

I have done this a million times before, too.

I love the idea of a linear, consistent and disciplined writing practice. I want to be like those writers who go on interviews saying that they wake up at 5 am before everyone else in the house (Jimmy Carter, Stephen King, Stephen Pressfield are just a few that come to mind) to get a few hours of writing done before everyone is up.

That sounds wonderful, juicy and so inspiring.

The reality though is that I need my sleep. Yep, I need a lot of it. And while I would love to get up at 8 am and have a few hours of quite at home to meditate, do my morning practices and then sit down to write for you, there is the problem of that whole, ahem, cohabitation with others-thing.

I fantasize about all the years I was alone and how I could have written more consistently then. I did the best I could. And I am certain I am doing the best I can now.

It does seem dissatisfying though.

I’ve just participated in a two-day silent meditation retreat. I love the space it gives me to breathe and just be. It’s so funny that as human beings in this culture we feel we need social permission to just be. Like we are all so compulsive about doing something, that being gets relegated to something that other people can do … if only we had time …

Retreats are a way of providing serious social permission to just be. Most people don’t think of them as such but think about it.

You say you are going on a retreat and people think, “Wow. Must be nice. I could never do that. I have SO much to do and can’t afford it anyway. But it does sound wonderful …”

Being on retreat is like taking a big fat crayon, and making a big red circle around yourself on the playground of life:

“I love you guys. You are my friends. But for right now, I am just going to be in my little circle and am going to be with myself. Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong. I’ll be back though, and we will play again together soon. Thanks for understanding.”

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could give each other permission to do that more regularly?

I am always impressed by the busy productive people I know who have clear boundaries around protecting their alone time.

Most of us are great at keeping commitments to be with others. We show up for doctor’s appointments, parent-teacher conferences, date nights. We also show up for things when we have skin in the game, either financially or for other reasons that have to do with our survival.

But how often do most of us honestly and without guilt say, “Here is my big fat crayon. And I am going to draw a circle around myself in the chalk for the next hour so I can be alone and just be"?

For me, doing so is a way of allowing writing to come forth. I am not one of those, like Elizabeth Gilbert, who can write for 15 minutes before getting on this plane to Bali or 20 minutes after doing a TV interview. I feel the compulsion to have oodles of uninterrupted hours to play with the blank screen or page and to get the sense I am actually making progress. I also want to hide out from the phone and social media and pretty much all human contact.

In many respects, I am really well suited to the monastic life. The empty silence nurtures me. The community of support in which we are together in our solitude and our common purpose excites me. The permission to truly serve something greater than ourselves without concern for self-protection, self-promotion or much of self at all attracts me enormously.

And at the same time, I remember Thomas Merton, peace activist, writer and Trappist Monk, also exploring the same tension in himself in his epic memoir, “The Seven-Story Mountain”.

The longing and line between quiet contemplation and a life in the world is one which he straddled throughout his life. His conclusion? The most sacred life was the one that integrated time for quite contemplation and reverence with service in the world. After all, the only way he created his books which have given solace, comfort and inspiration to so many others was by diligently, rigorously and compassionately taking out his big fat crayon and drawing a circle around himself, a circle in which he could commune with his Creator and creative process and give birth to works that have inspired millions.

A recent piece by award-winning author Courtney Martin prompted me to explore the notion of creating space for creation and being. Anecdotally, it seems easier for men in our culture historically to feel entitled to take space to create and be, while women – as the mothers, wives, sisters, teachers, nurturers – find so much more conflict about it. I don't know and certainly have no answers. But I do have incredible admiration and deep respect for anyone who creates something from their deepest source of being, just for the joy of it. When it is a mother with children still at home, I am floored. Each and every time. And so much of the time, the tension in the internal world (creation and being versus guilt) mirrors the social pressure in the external world.

Having spent my 20s trying to change the world on the outside, working in organizations like the World Bank, slaps in the face and defeat have taught me the great truth that the only thing we have any power over changing is ourselves. Yes, Dorothy, we must be the change we wish to see in the world.

It is a radical act of love for self and others therefore, when anyone takes a time out to be and be with something that is longing to be expressed. Whenever anyone takes that radical stance of picking up the crayon, drawing the circle and saying, “This is for me, and this is my radical act of changing the world”, it makes it easier for the rest of us to do so.

Every time I get a new, fresh book – or see a new documentary or taste a meal made with a new recipe using all organic and sustainable foods, or hear a song that a mother has written after cooing her baby to bed – I am inspired and feel hopeful.

I don’t believe revolutions happen from one moment to the next. They happen when we each stop, take a moment to pause and reflect, turn on the timer to take a time out for ten minutes or ten hours, and allow what is supposed to come forth the time, attention and care it deserves.

Without expectation or judgment about outcomes, simply as a radical act of self-love.

The only kind of love there ever really is.