Retreat Report: Sterrekopje 

Over the course of a few short weeks this past fall, several things happened in my life that all coalesced around the idea of “home.” A dear friend gifted me Elena Brower’s new book, Hold Nothing: An Invitation to Let Go and Come Home to Yourself. I unlocked the door to my home in Milan (an apartment I bought while considering a move from Los Angeles), sleeping there for the first time after a renovation process that was wrapped in love. And I was invited to experience a “Wise Woman Retreat” at Sterrekopje, a healing farm in South Africa, an experience that I would come to learn was about coming home, together.

I had been thinking a lot about “home.” Where is it when the country you call home becomes unrecognizable? When your beloved hometown is ravaged by wildfires, with many friends losing theirs? When a job involves a weekly commute not across town, but across cities and time zones, with home becoming just an occasional layover? As for so many, the past year had been a challenging one. Beyond asking these existential questions, there had been life milestones to traverse. In winter, I held my mom’s hand as she took her last breath. In springtime, I laid her to rest. And come fall, after visiting her gravesite for the first time, I drove away from the French village she had called home for so many years—also my home in France—not knowing when I would return. Feeling tender and with my sense of place—which for so long had been so sure—uncertain, I said “yes” to the retreat, unclear if I’d been included because I was wise or because I was in need of wisdom. I would travel over 10,000 miles to learn that the answer was most certainly the latter.

I didn’t read much about the retreat prior to wheels up, taking off from LAX, then Malpensa, on my journey to Franschhoek, a lovely village an hour north of Cape Town on the edge of wine country. As a perpetual traveler, I was aware of Sterrekopje and was beckoned by its promise of rambling gardens; meals created with myriad fruits and vegetables straight from the regenerative farm; horses, chickens and cows grazing the land; a serene bathhouse with its dreamy hammam; and rooms that were created with a single purpose: to offer guests a sanctuary, allowing them to rest, reflect and recuperate, and to discover the magic of the farm’s 124 acres—along with a renewed sense of play—at their own pace.

After an easy drive from the airport, I pulled into Sterrekopje’s driveway lined with olive trees and tall native grasses swaying from side to side. Greeted by a kind man named Silent, I took in the beautiful surroundings as he guided me through the property, concluding at my room, a generous space overlooking the lawns and a shimmery pale aqua pool. On my bedside table I discovered the week’s schedule, along with a few thoughtful welcome gifts. I sensed intuitively that Sterrekopje’s rhythms were set by Mother Nature and happily slowed to meet her tempo. I had time to unpack and prepare for the first gathering, set for late afternoon.

The first step in this group journey was to meet our fellow travelers, along with Nicole and Fleur, the founders of Sterrekopje, and two additional practitioners, Bianka and Isa, who would guide us through the week’s activities. We tucked in under the shade of an ancient willow near the garden. One by one, women approached the setting, debating which pillow to sink into. Glances were exchanged, along with a few awkward words, and a hum of excitement and intrigue began to ripple among us, carried along by a soft South African breeze.

I hadn’t given much thought to what I would share in this opening circle. Private by nature, my intuition led me to assume not much. As I learned about each woman’s background and reason for joining the retreat, listening as they pulled the curtain back on their messy, painful, fascinating, hopeful, complex lives with vulnerability and courage, the emotional dunes within me began to shift.

When my turn came, to my surprise, I shared everything: from the heartache of my mom’s death, as well as my dad’s departure four years prior; to lingering wounds from the distant past and luminous hopes for the near future. From my personal mantra, “Beauty is protest,” to salty, unstoppable tears. Like tiny liquid ghosts hiding in my peripheral vision, they streamed down my cheeks—some “old tears,” as a friend calls them, some new. I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable, but also honest and unmoored from my center of gravity, which usually keeps me squarely grounded. One of the guides reminded us that, like snowflakes, tears are made up of unique crystals, each carrying an original story. Many would flow in the coming days, for all of us, and it was beautiful to behold their individual shape and meaning. The threads of wisdom had begun to appear, and together we would weave them into a larger design over the course of the week. We would learn that through discomfort, much is revealed, and that with an open heart, even more is gained.

As introductions wound down, the first Tarot cards of the week were drawn. Snacks were enjoyed. Questions asked. Shoulders dropped. The mood eased. The Sterrekopje effect gently surfaced—a softening, a slowing down, a deepening—soothing what was frayed and paving the way for soulful recalibration. Eight strangers who had arrived curious and willing yet naturally unsure began to build trust, and the distance between us began to narrow under the wise old tree. We made our way slowly back to our rooms, anticipating our first evening together. This initial meal, along with each that followed, turned out to be a feast.

I could write an entire essay on the meals of Sterrekopje, with the chef, Liezl, her colleague, Dani, and their entire staff playing unique and vibrant roles, bringing breakfast, lunch, and dinner to life with such care, levity and teamwork. I tagged along with Liezl each day, soaking up her knowledge, and she made me feel welcome even in the rush of dinner prep. I learned about nigella seeds and the art of making dukkah; about the properties of bee pollen and the secret to Sterrekopje’s delicious, miniature homemade pretzels. These were small elements within the bountiful meals we enjoyed. Dinner on the first evening set the tone. I still dream of the simple zucchini spinach soup dotted with chive blossoms. This first course was followed by masala roasted carrots; toasted millet with green sorrel, mint and mustard dressing; sautéed Lion’s Mane mushroom with black garlic risotto, and a green salad with fresh apple noodles, rocket, and avocado with a marigold vinaigrette. A slow-cooked peach over sage ice cream appeared as dessert and somehow we all made room for it despite full bellies. The textured flavors and lovely presentation of the food throughout the week spoke to me deeply. I was reminded of my mom—an artist, author, enthusiastic cook, and gardener—each time I sat down at the communal table.

After dinner the first night, Fleur and Nicole invited us to wrap up in blankets and make our way out to the islet at the center of the pond. We took turns blowing our burdens to the wind, releasing unwanted albatrosses to be carried across the landscape, never to return. It was springtime in South Africa, the season of one’s younger self—the Maiden—and this energy began to unfurl, beginning with moonlit skinny dips and laughter that lingered in the air as if it were the first night at summer camp. Sleep at the end of it all was immensely nourishing.

The pace of the retreat slowed to a honeyed cadence, though far from a halt. Lively discussions took place over Liezl’s delicious breakfasts, and we moved into engaging sessions by 10:30 a.m., with Fleur often taking the lead, always speaking with encouragement, candor, and conviction, making her way through sensitive topics with fluidity and respect. Nicole wove in and out of these activities beautifully, Fleur’s perfect foil with her wild mane and spontaneous smile. To watch Nicole and Fleur—partners in the Sterrekopje project and in life—interact is to witness a seemingly effortless dance grounded in love and curiosity. It’s clear that they’re profoundly connected and that the ineffable qualities defining this special place are a result of their combined vision and commitment.

Over the first two days, we were introduced to Bianka’s voice, movement and touch (the best deep tissue/Thai massage I’ve ever had), and to Isa’s wonderfully witchy support as an energy healer and “Sophianic Animistic” shaman. Both embodied feminine wisdom and were integral to our days on the farm. As participants, we felt safe and seen, as well as inspired by their presence and teachings, and it was hard to imagine this week would eventually come to a close. Sooner than expected, however, we were asked to pause, to disengage from dialogues that were naturally deepening. To go inward. At the beginning of a late afternoon breathwork session it was shared that we would spend the next 24 hours in silence. Further invigorating conversations with Bianka and Isa, as well as Fleur and Nicole and the other women, would have to wait.

The group had logical questions and one sensed mild trepidation about the night and day ahead. That said, I welcomed this opportunity to experience silent reflection, at ease enjoying my own company and turning the volume of the world down to zero. After a quiet, slightly uncomfortable dinner, we retired to our rooms, anticipating a call time of 7 a.m., when we would meet at the yurt at the edge of the pond to head out on our independent walks. Fleur and Nicole invited us to scale the modest mountain that stands as a backdrop for Sterrekopje (and also served as the historical inspiration for the property’s name, which means “bright star over little mountain”), or simply wander to the edges of the tree line and meadows, exploring the farm’s textures and sounds, flora and fauna. With a six-hour span in front of me, I chose the latter, with an immediate pull towards the garden.

Taking the long way around, within an hour or so I opened a rustic wooden gate leading into the garden and its pathways. With spring growth revealing fruit and vegetables at every turn, I marveled at the colors and hidden treasures tucked under foliage and along vines. I felt my mom all around me. I thought about the stack of drawings I’d carried home from France after her passing, years of her watercolor and colored pencil sketches of carrots, shallots, cabbages, pears, cherries, figs, along with pansies, iris, tulips, nasturtium, and so many other cuttings from her garden. Her artwork was my primary inheritance; beyond being her pastimes, drawing and gardening were her passions. She would have wept at the beauty of this place. She would have lost track of time, peeking under strawberry leaves, pulling weeds, plucking purple basil and lemon verbena and zucchini flowers. She would have examined the Lolo greens, the beetroot, and the blackberries, and she would have been overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of it all. I wished I could have shared the garden bench with her, to tell her how much I loved her one more time, “bigger than the universe,” I always said. And I realized she was simultaneously out there and with me, at home and at peace. I felt love and gratitude for her beyond measure, and for my dad, too.

It was not easy to leave the garden, but my feet carried me forward, and I encountered the farm’s chickens, geese and pigs along the way, as well as red dragonflies, brilliant blue lizards, baby frogs, and speckled guinea hens with their little chicks. Eventually reuniting with the group, the silence lifted before dinner, and the remaining days of the retreat were rich with additional activities and learnings. We made naïve and vibrant watercolors together in the art studio. Offered solid balance and deep stretches in pairs yoga. Drifted off and were enveloped in dreams and visions amidst the hum of sound bowls. As timing would have it, the last full Supermoon of 2025 hung bright in the sky on the final night, providing an opportunity for profound reflection and illumination and prompting the release of all that is old and unnecessary in our lives. Some women danced freely and howled at the giant orb above us, which lit up the pond like a sheet of glass. I contemplated the silence and the garden and was in awe of the natural world and strength of the humans all around me, immensely grateful for all that my mom and dad had gifted me through their creativity, kindness, independent thinking and humble grace.

I traveled to Sterrekopje with few to no expectations and joined the Wise Woman Retreat thinking I had a lifetime of wisdom to share. What I experienced was my heart and my wisdom expanding, thanks to this very special, generous group of women. I felt my hopes and ambitions being shaped by my inner guide, my love of travel, adventure, and design, and my intention to pursue and create the sublime. And I experienced my grief turning to acceptance. I will carry so many memories and lessons from Sterrekopje with me, most importantly a quote that Bianka shared in one of our early conversations, paraphrasing Ram Dass: “Home is the quality of your presence.” Home isn’t a country or a city or an address or even where your heart is. It’s how you show up, for yourself and those you love.

It’s also, during transitional periods during our lives, elusive. I discovered this poem in a small book in my room during my stay at this enchanted place, truly a healing farm, and shared it at our Closing Circle. I offer it here as a few final words around the idea of “home.”

“What If This Road”

by Sheenagh Pugh

What if this road, that has held no surprises
these many years, decided not to go
home after all; what if it could turn
left or right with no more ado
than a kite-tail? What if its tarry skin
were like a long, supple bolt of cloth,
that is shaken and rolled out, and takes
a new shape from the contours beneath?
And if it chose to lay itself down
in a new way; around a blind corner,
across hills you must climb without knowing
what’s on the other side; who would not hanker
to be going, at all risks? Who wants to know
a story’s end, or where a road will go?