This morning, I went for a walk. I wound my way upstream along a familiar mountain trail, toward a place I’ve visited far more frequently in my imagination than in physicality. Truth be known, it is a place I have visited in person no more than a dozen times in the last 20 years, yet I go to this place frequently in my mind: a small aspen grove set five miles back from the trailhead, nestled in among the dense evergreens and open avalanche chutes, where the steep mountain trail levels out and the dark forest gives way to bright blue sky.
This is the place I go in my mind when I wish to feel safe in the world.
Today I wanted to go there in person. I wanted to ask this grove about what safety is, in a world that feels heartbreakingly dangerous for so many creatures all the time. I wanted to watch the aspen leaves flutter in the wind, to hear the song of the varied thrush and the whisper of the stream. I wanted to feel the warm sun and cool breeze on my skin, in a place where I could trust that no one and no thing would hurt me.
I am one of those blessed individuals that has little to fear for their physical safety. My skin color, nationality, immigration status, age, socio-economic class, gender expression, and sexual orientation--all these aspects of how the world sees me insulate me quite well from fear for my physical safety. Sure, there are the occasional insecurities I experience as a small-statured woman, but mostly I can avoid situations where I experience a sense of physical risk.
There is a common discourse in social justice spaces--about the need to create not safe spaces to do our work, but brave spaces.
I believe in bravery. As someone with immense amounts of privilege in a world suffering horrible acts of violence and oppression all the time, I understand the need to build resiliency, to show up with courage and tenacity and the willingness to be uncomfortable.
I also am learning my limitations. I find myself seeking refuge from the constant barrage of mental violence inflicted by white supremacy, by patriarchy, by capitalism--the constant messages that say do more, be more, you are not enough. I feel myself a weary traveler in need of a safe place to lay my head for the night, so I can pick myself back up and continue on.
Youth Passageways is the place where I can lay my head.
Over the last several years, I’ve come to discover how edgy my work is--how counter to the mainstream narrative that seeks to divide us from the world around us, from one another, and from ourselves. I am frequently reminded by my partner that I seem to continuously choose the harder route for myself.
Several experiences over the last year have shown me that it is very important in my work to have people that can act as mirrors for me, clearly reflecting my gifts and weaknesses, challenging me to maximum effectiveness and integrity. I see that what I am trying to bring forth in the world is part of a community effort--and that I must be held in community in order to offer my gifts. I have also come to see that what I have to offer grows stronger when it’s connected with the efforts of others who carry their own particular flavors and experiences that complement what I have to offer.
Which brings me back to the aspen grove, and my morning walk. After a couple of hours, I almost gave up on reaching my destination. The pull of my endless to-do list shouted in my ear, encouraging me to turn around and return to my computer. But I continued on, dogged in my determination to reach the grove. I was rewarded with a softness that matched the open forest of my imagination. I found a warm, smooth rock to lay down upon, and gazed up to the fresh early summer leaves quaking in the wind, while the thrushes fluttered their clear, evocative call. Lying there, I felt the singularity of the aspen grove. I looked up into the branches of the seemingly separate trees--some dead, some bursting in fullness, some small saplings--and felt their oneness.
For this is part of the magic of an aspen grove. Beyond their shade in warm places, the particularity of their quaking leaves, aspens offer another uniqueness: an aspen grove is one living organism, connected underground. The seemingly separate trees are but one part of a larger, interconnected whole.
This winter, I took a risk. I merged my private consulting and teaching work under Youth Passageways. In doing this, I claimed what was already true, though wasn’t necessarily apparent because it lived beneath the surface of things. I am not a separate entity that can live and survive on my own. I am connected to others like myself by a vast interconnected web of roots. I am nourished by the roots of this whole, and I too feed this whole through my own branches and leaves.
Youth Passageways is an intricate organism, made up of many unique and singular offerings in the world. As I shift from private practice, to offering my work within Youth Passageways, I hope that you will look closely at what this network has to offer, whether you work with young people or not! This diverse, global network has been my primary learning space for the last ten years, teaching me about how to bring forth traditional and emergent practices needed in our world today.