The night swallowed the Cederberg as seven strangers stepped outside. They came chasing constellations, but found something unexpected and necessary. What caught their attention first wasn’t in the sky. It was each other.

Over three days, simple moments felt unexpectedly meaningful. Passing the plate felt like a masterclass in presence: the warmth of mushroom soup, the sudden laugh when a fork clattered.
Then a collective gasp rose as someone peered through the eyepiece and whispered in awe, “Saturn.” A ripple of soft murmurs of wonder echoing in the valley.
Bewilderment and enchantment mingled under that sliver of moonlight. Walks unfolded between silence and playful detours into black hole theories or the absurdities of daily life. Those unassuming moments bore the weight of something profound.

We have been hosting retreats here for nearly five years, and lately we have found ourselves asking the same question: What are we really doing here?

Reflecting on the time spent and the moments shared with everyone who has visited our home, we remembered why we began. We always looked forward to one thing: meeting and connecting with people.
That one retreat weekend made it real in a way words usually don’t. It was in the way someone’s laughter bounced off the valley walls. It was in the quiet nods we exchanged during a long pause, like we were all holding the same fragile breath. It was in passing the plate of food, a simple act that somehow tied us together, less as individuals and more as a messy, living chorus.

It is a simple lesson that our culture too often ignores. We are sold on transformation and the solo race, and the belief that the universe cares for us and will imbue our lives with meaning if we meet the right guru. But the idea of ‘me, myself and I’, we cling to is mostly an illusion, a futile chase after something that is never here. Yet here we were, standing beneath an indifferent cosmos, stars twinkling without care, and we felt it so deeply: we are knots in a vast web, our gestures and breaths rippling through each other.

Those simple moments of sharing food and silence under a sky full of stars are not trophies. They are sparks that reconnect us and hold us together when everything else feels unstable.
This phenomenon is called collective effervescence, a term coined by the sociologist Émile Durkheim to describe the electric charge that courses through a group when people truly connect. It happens when our sense of separateness fades, emotions sync, and a shared energy emerges, lifting everyone’s spirits. Whether laughter echoes around a dinner table or hush falls under the stars, collective effervescence is the invisible force that makes ordinary moments extraordinary. We do not wait for meaning to reveal itself, we create it in how we speak, show up, and treat one another.

After years of hosting, one thing is clear: the real discovery isn’t out there, but here, in the company of others, in the moment of social effervescence.

When was the last time you felt truly seen, really connected beyond words and distractions? We’d love to hear about those moments that surprised you or changed something inside. Share your story with us.