The story behind the sanctuary (my strand of it, anyway)
“I can promise you that there is a world within you that is every bit as big — no, far bigger — than the one that you see, feel, and read about in the news every day with increasing fear. Go into the silence that is within you more frequently and, I swear to you, that stillness will counterbalance every bit of madness you see around you. It is of equal weight. No, it is of greater weight. When you become anchored in that deeply silent inner temple, you will become — anyone can become — a sanctuary where peace abides, not only for yourself but by extension for others.”
—Liz Gilbert, Letters from Love
The old crumbling structure
I’m picturing this moment in history as a massive old amphitheater that’s somehow stayed standing for decades, centuries longer than it was meant to, defying all laws of physics. It’s dangerous, it’s uninhabitable, and nevertheless it’s been where we’ve lived. We’re continuing to make our home here even as our very actions—known as advancement, known as technology, known as growth—only erode it. The story we cling to is that we are making it stronger, better, rebuilding it somehow.
All we’re actually doing is hacking away at its walls.
There was never a foundation under this thing—nothing built to ground it or hold it together. If there was it wouldn’t be in the shape that it is now.
But at its heart there is an earthen floor: one made of organic matter: soil, grass, rocks, little plants. Beneath this are root systems, mycelium. Worms and other creatures. Possibilities waiting to sprout.
Quit patching; start cultivating
It seems we need to stop trying to patch the walls, let the thing crumble, and turn toward what’s growing under our feet.
Few want to do this because we don’t know who we are without the walls. Everything that is yet to grow is still underground. We don’t know what’s waiting for us. We have to let the structure fall away, grieve it, and water the ground with our tears. We also have to accept that whatever grows may only do so partially in our lifetime. We’re not going to be done. All we can do right now is make a start.
It’s work that asks so much of us. Surrender. Grief. Community. Forgiveness (of self and other). Creativity. Patience. Communion with the actual earth who, in spite of our consistent abuse and neglect, will continue to hold us through all of this.
Breathing life into the idea
I felt moved to support folks in all of this somehow, and of course knew it was too big to do on my own. So I called Tim, whose spiritual practices, whose friendship with the land and its beings, and whose embodiment of grief have always moved me. I wondered what we might do together.
Quickly between us arose the idea of sanctuary—some way of growing little gardens in ourselves, among ourselves, by lovingly tending to all we see beginning.
An intuitive hit had us ask what third person might round (or, triangle) out this offering. Tim immediately thought of Lynne, an gorgeously soulful therapist and somatic practitioner, with her own embodied wisdom around grief and rebirth.
Once Lynne was in the conversation, our collaborative offering appeared more or less fully formed. Each of our areas of holding are complementary and overlapping: grounded mysticism to help us vision what is true and possible; safe and unconditional spaces for expression; integration and embodiment through movement practices. We see them as just a few of the vital elements needed for this big, quiet work so many feel called to do right now.
Sanctuary of the Soul
So if any of this picture—the crumbling and the growing—resonates with you, and if you are wondering what in your own garden, your own community, your own soul needs tending, our weekend in Bend (April 26-27) might be the place to explore it.
We’ll hold a sanctuary for you to rest, explore, and discover. Just as important, you’ll find the sanctuary in yourself—a place of deep peace and knowing—so that you can move back out into your life with resources to tend your own patch of earth, and courage to let go of what is no longer needed.
