Earlier this month I attended a meditation retreat along the quiet shores of Flathead Lake in Montana. The retreat was led by Michael Ciborski, a teacher in the Plum Village tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh, and hosted by the Open Way Mindfulness Center. It was my fourth retreat in the Plum Village tradition, my third with Michael, and my first accompanied by my five-year-old daughter, Sophia.

It turns out that adding a five-year-old to a retreat experience transforms it entirely.

Even before we arrived, my mind was buzzing with uncertainties and logistics. Did I pack the right snacks and warm-enough clothes for her? Would she find any kids to play with? What would I do if she got bored, upset, or hurt? These weren’t the kinds of questions I normally carried into a retreat, but they accompanied me this time like old friends hitching a ride. Rather than settling into a teaching or meditation period in the zendo, I could feel my mind being pulled in the direction of my daughter and the other kids, always wondering what they were up to. A big part of the practice, of course, is learning to be present with whatever arises—so that’s what I tried to do, even when my daughter had an “accident” in the ladies’ room after lunch on our second day.

Despite the early nerves, the experience blossomed in unexpected ways.

Sophia, it turned out, didn’t just tolerate the retreat—she thrived. There were other children around her age, and the retreat organizers had gently and repeatedly reminded us: “The children are the heart of the community.” I heard this on the first day and again throughout the weekend. And they didn’t just say it—they embodied it. When Sophia complained audibly about being uncomfortable during a Dharma talk, no one gave her the sideways glance I feared. When she dropped a plate full of food on the floor at lunch, several people nearby smiled and helped us clean up. One morning, as the group settled into seated meditation, I sat in a chair at the back with Sophia leaning across me and thought: this too is practice. Rubbing her back, breathing with her, feeling her hand on my knee—this was no detour from the path . . . it was the path.

Of course, I didn’t attend every scheduled sit. Early mornings before breakfast were off limits as we prioritized good sleep and gentle rising. I didn’t get to dive as deeply into the evening silence as I might have on a solo retreat. But I did get something else: quality time with my daughter, surrounded by a community of mindfulness practitioners who met her with warmth and patience. I had worried, frankly, that bringing Sophia might be difficult, both for myself and others. Instead, it revealed how inclusive this tradition can be and how much joy can spring up in the gaps where my expectations fall away.

Michael Ciborski’s teachings, as always, were clear and grounded. A longtime monastic in the Plum Village tradition who now lives as a lay teacher and father, Michael brings a rare blend of insight and accessibility. He spoke about the interconnectedness of the Noble Eightfold Path, the true meaning of karma, and the power of watering good seeds in our lives and practice—and all of it felt newly relevant in the presence of a child. I found myself listening differently, thinking of my practice now incorporating this new little person. There was something poignant in hearing teachings on interbeing after watching her reach out to hold the hand of another child she had just met. “We don’t exist separately,” Thich Nhat Hanh taught. “We inter-are.” And seeing my daughter among this temporary village of retreatants, I felt that more clearly than ever.

There were many small, luminous moments. Morning walks by the lake, clouds passing in the distance as the community moved quietly among the buildings nearby. Sophia finding a dozen different rocks and presenting each one to me like a treasure to bring home. A gentle meal shared in silence, punctuated only by the clink of spoons and the occasional giggle. Watching Sophia close her eyes and put her hands in a meditation mudra at the sound of the mindfulness bell. These are the images that linger—not dramatic insights or spiritual fireworks, but a kind of warm ordinariness and growing connection. Life, as it is, held with care.

And yes, there were moments of fatigue and frustration. I felt pulled between my desire for solitude and my duty as a parent. Instead of directing my awareness inward to see—and perhaps smooth out—some of the complex terrain of my inner landscape, my mind was nearly always in the environment around me as I worried about disturbing fellow meditators or tried to anticipate or respond to Sophia’s needs of the moment. I had to let go of a version of the retreat I had imagined. And in doing so, I learned something. Again.

This practice—especially in the Plum Village tradition—is not about escaping life. It’s about returning to it, with open eyes and a tender heart. What is the use of a quiet breath if I can’t also breathe with my child as she struggles? What good is mindful walking if I can’t walk with my five-year-old, holding her hand or taking wonder and delight in her sense of discovery around every new corner?

As the retreat drew to a close, I found myself reflecting on a familiar question: how do I bring this home? For years now, I’ve struggled with the post-retreat dip: that return to busy schedules, distractions, and the slow erosion of mindful intention. But something felt different this time. Maybe it was because I’d already been “in life” throughout the retreat—no strict barrier between the sacred and the ordinary. Maybe it’s because Sophia was there too, and she’s now part of my sangha, part of the web of mindfulness I hope to nourish at home.

On the drive back from Flathead Lake, Sophia was unusually quiet. When I asked what she was thinking, she said: “I liked the bell. And the desserts. And riding in the canoe.”

Me too, kiddo. Me too.

When we stopped for gas, she asked if we could get two snacks—one for now and one to share with her mom and aunt when we got home. She’s often a very generous and thoughtful kid, but this cracked open my heart a little.

In the days since returning, I’ve tried to keep things simple. A short morning sit, just a few minutes sometimes. A breath before meals. A moment to pause and smile as this or that doesn’t go the way I’d hoped. These are not grand commitments, but they feel sincere. Sophia still remembers the retreat and smiles when I ask her if she’d like to go again next year. It warms me to know that her earliest memories of mindfulness are steeped in community and welcome, not pressure or piety.

There’s a line from Thich Nhat Hanh that’s been echoing in me since returning: “The most precious gift we can offer others is our presence. When mindfulness embraces those we love, they will bloom like flowers.” (Cultivating Peace and Joy)

I don’t know how well I’m doing, honestly. Like many parents, I often feel like I’m just muddling through a sea of modern life problems, doubts, and distractions. But I do know this: for one long weekend, I was present with my daughter, and she bloomed. So did I.

See more

Bio and Training: About Michael Ciborski (True Middle Way)
Open Way Sanghas
The Precious Gift of Mindfulness (Cultivating Peace and Joy)

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Growing Up with the Dharma: A Window into Middle Way School
Embracing Sangha, Meditation, and Love in Hard Times – Wisdom from Thich Nhat Hanh
Nature, Nurture, and the Perils of Parenting
Smartphones, Parenting, and Struggling to Set a Good Example
Family Matters: Taking Turns Parenting in Retreat

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