What makes a space safe?

When I talk about Soul Writing groups being safe, I don’t do so lightly. I know that often, groups claiming to be “safe” feel anything but, usually having to do with gaps in understanding, unspoken assumptions, ego and the like. There are loads of articles about this so I won’t go too much into it; I’m just bringing it here to assure you that my use of the phrase is quite intentional.

In fact, I’m writing this because of something that has made me curious. I’ve heard Soul Writing groups referred to as truly safe spaces by people who know all about these sorts of pitfalls. For instance, facilitators who spend their time studying, creating, and holding space for growth and change, or BIPOC folks who have been pleasantly surprised by the experience they have in these still mostly white circles.

I’ve started to wonder why. As with most topics it’s not something I’ve researched; it’s simply a paradigm that changed my life and I’ve attempted to replicate. I am so, god, so grateful that it seems to be working, and have become intrigued as to what might be happening.

The space we make for newborn creation

Reflecting on it now, a metaphor comes up that I use often: in Soul Writing we’re concerned with our writing being born into the world, not what it grows up to be.

Admittedly I have never attended a birth, but I’ve been there in the aftermath of many, and have heard enough to know this: when someone arrives on the planet alive and relatively healthy, the feeling in the room is wonder. There’s a sense of connection to all things forward and backward in time, flashes of understanding of what life is at its most eternal and its most elemental.

What we’re not doing in these moments is judging or assessing. Sure, in western culture there are some immediate assessments, from the informal ritual of parents counting fingers and toes, to measurements and Apgar scores. By and large, though, we’re not leaning in and squinting at the freshly baked little critter, concerned that their crying is off key, or that they have hair in weird places, or are covered in splotches. We don’t ask the person who just gave birth what they’d been thinking, whether they might have approached it differently, or not done it at all.

No. We are fascinated, stunned, blown open. We’re knocked a little bit outside of time and space by what has just occurred, suspended in the miraculous. Maybe because this tiny person has arrived so freshly from the realm of pure love, we can’t help but be infected by it.

There is reverence. There is tenderness. There is a collective breath. There are feelings of openness. Possibility. Peace. Celebration. Love.

This is all we’re doing in Soul Writing.

In a given session, we’re all standing back and beholding the newborn creation in your arms: one that was conceived in your soul and born of the truth. Maybe the labor was a little arduous, especially if it was your first time, or maybe the piece flowed right out with barely any effort. Regardless, it’s here, and it is worthy of celebration.

This transcends any competition, levels any playing field, syncs up our hearts. We are all born, and we all birth creations into the world. We all experience pain and fear and learning and longing and ecstasy and regret and bewilderment and death, and we channel all of this universal human stuff through our writing. There’s nothing to believe or not, accept or not. It just is. We don’t have to effort to keep assessment at bay because there’s simply no place here for it. There’s nowhere for judgment to find purchase.

Maybe that’s what ‘unconditional’ means: what’s flowing between us is so deeply true that there are no conditions under which we need to believe, accept, and love it. Safety doesn’t come from anything we are doing. We’re simply existing in what is true for each person, and for us collectively.

A sanctuary in a hard-edged world

If you need an editor you will find one. If you need critique you don’t have to look far. There are so many places on this earth to hone, refine, improve, sharpen. And there are places, times and conditions under which these things are absolutely appropriate, helpful, even necessary. We need precision, and reining in, and rigor, and measurements, and goals, and all those beautiful things that well developed adult brains do to ensure things like physical safety and growth and discovery. It’s what keeps those roofs over our heads and those telescopes telling us what lives beyond our understanding.

I think it’s harder to find places that connect us to our inner knowing and make space for its expression—places that keep your tender heart safe from all that pokey, metallic, contrasting matter out there.

In Soul Writing, we’re hanging out in that soft, nascent place that existed before all that knowledge and rationality started to take hold. It’s the moment before anything can be messed with, broken, or regarded with anything other than awe. It’s a liminal, warm cocoon that cradles our newborn words, our younger selves, our tender hearts, our beautiful creations.

Maybe this is what makes it safe.

What about you?

What has your experience been of safe spaces? What does safety feel like to you? If you’ve been in a Soul Writing group, how does this space measure up? How can we make it even more deeply welcoming? Please share your thoughts and your wonderings in the chat.

If you haven’t been in a Soul Writing group, you are so welcome to join us at a Mini-Retreat any time.