Tag Archives: The Haven

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences, Valuing Differences, Vulnerability

Fear, Love, and the Risk of Reducing Aliveness

I recently came across a research abstract suggesting that Virginia Satir’s experiential family systems approach might be “integrated” with models like Emotion-Focused Therapy. The intent: give her work more structure, theory, and replicability.

It stopped me in my tracks.
Could Satir’s profound body of work—rooted in presence, creativity, and relational aliveness—be reduced to “mere creative techniques”? Sadly, yes.

And it’s not just Satir. Many programs born of humanistic psychology have been distilled into measurable techniques, slotted neatly into systems that can be studied and standardized. Relevant, yes. But at what cost?

When we prize only what can be researched or proven, we lose something vital. Aliveness. Creativity. Connection. We flatten the very field where transformation emerges.

Creation vs. Consumption

What I long for isn’t consumption of another “evidence-based” tool. It’s creation. Taking an idea and living in it—moving, playing, risking. Not applying theory with rigid gestures, but engaging the unpredictable edge where life actually shifts.

Evidence-based living too often traps us in right/wrong, safe/unsafe. The result? A shrinking space for wonder, possibility, and connection.

What Haven Taught Me

As part of The Haven Faculty, I’ve witnessed again and again the raw, alive field where healing happens—not through protocols, but through presence. Haven’s roots were never built on the theoretical. They grew from two physicians—one working with teens, one with elders—who noticed transformation simply by bringing people together.

Of course they developed models to support learning but they also made presence and connection the bottomline.

What drew me to Haven, and originally to Satir, wasn’t a model to be replicated. It was the power of human beings meeting each other without guarantees, without smoothing over, without management.

Haven has always been about leaning into conflict, discomfort, intensity—not to retraumatize, but to discover. To find more of ourselves and more of each other than we thought possible.

The Trouble with Safety

When frameworks and protocols become the defining lens, the focus shifts. The energy becomes about safety, prevention, containment. Safety matters—but transformation doesn’t live in managed safety. It lives in risk, in storm, in staying connected when it would be easier to retreat.

True safety is born in presence, not control. In the messy, unpredictable space of being human together.

The Larger Gift

Yes, trauma walks through our doors. It always has. And we hold it with care. But I refuse to let trauma—or the management of it—define transformation.

Satir’s gift, and Haven’s, is larger: a space that is alive, not managed. A space where fear and love meet, and in that meeting, choice becomes possible.

Community, Connecting, Connection, Life Experiences

The Heart of The Haven: Grief, Growth, and The Power of Connection

Over the forty-plus years I’ve been involved with The Haven, countless people have become woven into the fabric of my life. Many of them for decades. Some are still here, though too many are now gone—some far too young, some older, and some who simply seemed to complete with what they came to do on this earth. When I pause, the grief of those losses still rolls through me.

And then there are others—the ones who are alive but no longer return to The Haven. I don’t always know why. For me, every time I’ve come back—whether to lead, to participate, or simply to reconnect—I’ve found nourishment and meaning. Yet, for some, that return no longer calls them.

The Haven itself is in an evolutionary process. Things change—and they need to. Still, I hold deep belief in the core programs, especially Come Alive. It is a rare and beautiful invitation to wake up to ourselves, to one another, and to life. I also believe in the training process that helps people grow into facilitators of deep connection—learning to relate, collaborate, and create across differences of culture, background, and experience. That work is transformative, and it matters.

But I also recognize that it may not be enough, on its own, to sustain The Haven as it has been. Others will have their own visions of what needs to emerge. At our recent faculty meeting, I loved hearing our new Executive Director speak of the “miracle moments” that have unfolded on that small piece of land. It’s true. So many miracles have happened there. And yet, the miracles didn’t stay confined to Gabriola. They traveled outward—carried by all of us—into families, workplaces, communities, and the wider world.

I now find myself part of many communities: Dr. Joe’s circle of coherent healers and advanced meditators, a Course in Miracles group, the Herd for Equus Coaching community, and many more. Some gather in large numbers, some only online, some with connections that ebb and flow. Yet all remain in my heart, part of my resonance field.

What I notice is this: the communities that nourish me most are the ones that hold space for difference, where connection matters more than credentials. At the same time, I’ve come to appreciate that every community needs some structure or resource to sustain itself—whether through credentials, program fees, or gatherings that draw people together. Without that, even the most meaningful communities can fade.

The Haven has always been, at its heart, about people daring to be real with one another. That feels as needed today as it ever was. What shape it needs to take going forward—that is still unfolding.

I too, am unfolding and evolving. Next up for me: Find Your Mojo in Montana and we are bringing back after some time away with some new vibrations. It’s a great combination of Haven and Equus . Join us in October!

Here’s a little taste:

Business, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Leadership

Community Through a Life of Pop-Ups

Leadership – Living it, Loving it, Learning within it
Pop-Ups for People
Pop-Up Communities

I think this is my work—my calling.

For a long time, I judged myself for not being a “good” community member. I thought that meant having lifelong friends, deep roots in one place, and strong ties to where I lived or worked. But my life hasn’t followed that pattern.

I’ve never worked in one company for decades. I don’t have children. I lived on Gabriola for ten years, Whitefish, MT since 2008. My longest-standing commitment may be be to The Haven, where I arrived in 1983. Over the years, I’ve been a participant, cleaner, registrar, intern, assistant, leader, part of the Education Steering group, and now the Education Council. But I don’t live there—and I still remember Ben saying, “This is not a community—it’s a business.”

Thrive! has been my longest work engagement—since our 2002 launch—yet it has evolved through many versions of clients, services, and ways of working.

I transformed my life at Haven, learned loving in my relationship of 25 years with CrisMarie but community I still struggled to figure out why that seemed so hard.

Recently, after a coaching session, I started thinking about “community” differently. I realized I’m very good at creating pop-up communities.

A pop-up community can be anything—a project, a start-up, a couple, a family, a movement, even a counrty. The United States itself began as one: people united around the idea of freedom. When Washington became the first President, he didn’t want the job, but there was a group of people determined to create something new, free from Britain and the Church. They had to figure out how to operate as a community. The Declaration of Independence and their efforts to separate church and state were attempts—imperfect but remarkable—to protect freedom.

The two greatest challenges to any community or organization are time and size.

  • In the early days, when the vision is fresh, energy flows and possibility feels limitless.
  • Over time, those with history become protective or defensive of what they helped build.
  • As size grows, a few leaders end up trying to defend and direct something that may need to evolve.

Every project, business, or relationship has to keep changing—recognizing both its strengths and its growing pains.

For me, that’s where leadership comes in and down to three things:

  1. Living – Not just creating something, but staying connected to the aliveness within it.
  2. Loving – Not clinging or defending, but loving in an active, trusting way—even when you don’t always like something happening.
  3. Learning within it – Staying humble, knowing there’s always more to discover, and being willing to listen and see new possibilities.

Leadership isn’t a title—it’s the choice to show up fully. Communities “pop up” everywhere, all the time. The people may change, but the energy of community is constant. It’s like a spiritual frequency we can tune into.

When we lose that trust and connection, what was alive can fade. But when we stay open, community—like communication—becomes eternal, even if no single form lasts forever.

I used to want to be like an old-growth cedar—deeply rooted and unchanging. Now, I see the wisdom in being more like bamboo—flexible, resilient, able to spring up anywhere.

Ultimately, it’s about knowing how to show up and engage in the moment. That’s what allows a community to truly commune. It may not be forever—but it is eternal.

Communication, Connecting, Connection, Leadership, Valuing Differences, Vulnerability

The Power — and Challenge — of Being Immediate in Community

When I’m in the middle of a rich, real community moment, I want to be all in. I want to name what’s happening, address it, and keep the connection alive right now.
That urgency can be a gift — and sometimes, a challenge.

I’m a very immediate person.
Sometimes that comes across as pressure or like it’s “all about me.”

At the recent Haven Faculty meeting — a deep, rich, and swirly experience — I threw myself into what I call a “pop-up community.” For me, the Haven is the best place to strengthen my skills in real, relational, and self-responsible living. It happens in programs, leadership, weekend meetings, and even online. But it takes intention — being present with what’s visible and invisible, owning mistakes, laughing, crying, and practicing patience.

That patience is my growth edge. In the moment, I often feel a strong urge to address issues right away, fearing they’ll grow if left alone. I’ve learned to speak my truth, then step back if others aren’t ready, leaving with clarity when I’ve invited full exchange.

Not everyone processes instantly. Sometimes insights or tensions surface later, away from the group. As a leader, I want to get better at supporting that — whether through a follow-up process, online sharing, or other ways to integrate after the fact. It’s one reason I’m developing Camp Connection.

I left the weekend with a few incompletes, so I’m reaching out, reflecting, and staying connected to that community energy as long as I can — to integrate, to strengthen both the branches and the heart of Haven, and to keep showing up real, relational, and self-responsible.

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Leadership, Vulnerability

Coming Alive Is Questionable – Check With Yourself Before Entry

On a morning walk during our recent faculty weekend, I passed this small campground with a curious sign:

AREA QUESTIONABLE – See Supervisor Before Entry

It made me laugh—and then it made me think. Later in the day as we gathered as a faculty, I realized it was the perfect metaphor for our topic: The Haven’s Code of Ethics.

The intent of the code is good—to offer process and clarity, to provide a path for complaints, and to protect the Haven, its faculty, and participants. But here’s the challenge: our real purpose is to create a community where people can Come Alive and be fully themselves. And “protecting” that? I’m not sure it’s possible—or even helpful.

Which brings me back to that sign. Maybe, I thought, ours should read:

Coming Alive Is Questionable – Check With Yourself Before Entry

What if a code of ethics wasn’t a rigid set of right/wrong rules, but an invitation into dialogue? Legal language tends to close doors with absolutes. Coming alive is messier—it lives in the grey, the “questionable area.” And maybe that’s okay.

That campground, after all, was a beautiful, vibrant place for kids and adults. Yes, there were risks. But life—real, alive life—always carries risk.

I’ll admit, I’ve had a complicated history with codes of ethics. As a therapist, patient, healthcare provider, and business owner, I’ve mostly seen them as legal shields—documents crafted to prevent lawsuits rather than foster connection. So when I first heard The Haven was deep-diving into a new code, my walls went up. This place I love for its realness, mistakes, and growth suddenly sounded like it was drafting hospital paperwork.

But thanks to Jane K and the commitment of our faculty to wrestle with this, something shifted. I started to hear that this wasn’t about legal cover—it was about creating a shared path through conflict, a way to open dialogue before we ever head toward litigation.

It won’t be perfect. No document can guarantee safety or resolve every dispute. But if we keep it living, breathing, and grounded in relationship rather than bureaucracy, it can serve our purpose: to support people in the vulnerable, risky, beautiful work of Coming Alive.

The sign still says it best: safety not guaranteed—enter at your own risk. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the point.

Connection, Embracing Unknown, Faith, Family

Finding The Fractals In The Fractures

In today’s world of division and polarization, it’s easy to see only what’s broken.

I get it.

But what if we’re not separate at all—what if we’re deeply, inherently connected?

What if the fractures we see are not wounds, but fractals—patterns that echo deeper truths?

Our senses show us only the visible strains, the surface tension of energy and vibration.

We miss the harmonics beneath, the subtle frequencies resonating between and within us.

So we attack, we defend—in the absence of a felt sense of the fractal rhythm always weaving us together.

But in the space of stillness, of nothingness, there is a rich, invisible pulse.

An infinite energy moves in fractals, silently connecting, endlessly creating a tapestry of possibility.

Our knowledge—our consciousness—is limited.

We crave story, structure, a sheet of music to follow.

And in seeking to understand, we often reduce the infinite into forms we can control:

Religion. Art. Science. Education.

None of these are wrong.

But each, when held too tightly, can become rigid.

Each can close the door to the fractal.

So how do we make space for what can’t be controlled?

How do we allow the fractal?

Breathe and trust.

Express and show up.

Listen and be curious.

When I do that, I tap into the infinite.

Just recently, I sat by my mother’s bedside, bearing witness to her transition—from form to energy, from Bernie to spirit.

In those final moments, something in the air shifted.

The barriers between us dissolved.

That’s why I needed to be there.

To sit beside her. To be with my sisters.

Somewhere in those quiet exchanges, I could feel the emerging fractal of our family—unfolding, rearranging, expanding.

Some might call this strange.

But it felt familiar to me—like the way I work with horses.

With horses, there’s no pretense.

No reliance on words, manners, or the learned rules of communication.

They feel everything.

They don’t dwell in stories. They live in the moment.

It’s all about the energy.

Beside my mother, it was the same.

Our past was absent.

Separation vanished.

It was a sweet, sacred space.

Her anxiety and agitation had eased.

Yes, she was still working to stay—but something else was also there.

Something softer, wiser.

I didn’t try to explain it. I just trusted it.

Music and words drifted through the room.

But more present to me was the soundless symphony from beyond.

Call it mist. Call it music. Call it the song of souls.

She was more tuned in than I was—already on her next adventure.

I was still unraveling the fabric of our shared life.

Soon, it would be just a fractal, dancing in the room.

It was a beautiful moment—beyond the veil.

That feeling has lasted.

It lingers, because it’s not energy bound by time.

It doesn’t need understanding.

It asks not to be named or narrated.

It simply is.

And in it, I remember:

We are fractals of interconnected energy.

I don’t need to fear or worry.

My work is to be creative. Curious. Open to the unknown and the infinite.

Not to conquer or control—but to live in the joy of our shared energy and our singular spirit.

We are dancers—

Not just humans—

When we remember the fractal that connects us all.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Life Experiences, writing

From Fracture to Fractal

Us at The Haven

For me, Haven is where I learned how to be relational—and real. I was fractured.

It brought me back to love. To loving. To creating, exploring, playing, and growing.

Before Haven, I was conforming, restricting, editing myself. Judging, separating. 

I often felt like I didn’t fit in. 

At times, I thought I was better than others—at other times, worse. 

I believed I had to be right, professional, smart, thin, flashy—wise or brilliant. Either profound or spiritual. 

But I didn’t know love back then.

Haven gave me a path to show up as I truly am.

Through breathing, and sharing what was happening inside me—how I was putting my world together, mostly based on past experiences and survival. 

Old stories that scared me or made me angry. 

And slowly, I began to realize: those stories weren’t true. Maybe they were once—but who could say?

Truth became important, but I also discovered something else: 

If I didn’t have to be right or wrong, I could share my story like an artist shares a painting—expressing how I felt in relationship to the world around me. 

And in doing so, I’d often discover that others had similar stories, or their art could support mine.

That made the moment freer. 

It wasn’t about facts—it was about creating.

Through my inner world, I could choose what helped me grow—or what kept me defended—and share that too.

I learned that when I spoke from a defended place, I blocked out new information. 

Or if something did sneak through, I’d just file it into an old, familiar box. 

But when I was in a growth state, new ideas would shift my perspective. 

My inner world would weave and evolve—like mixing paints. 

And that was fun. It was play. It sparked new activity and possibility.

I also realized I needed to face my old stories, scars, and stuck emotions. 

Without attention, they festered—like emotional cancers—messy, painful, and toxic to relationships. 

So I kept going. The process is ongoing.

I’ve learned the best way to live is by developing my capacity to relate— 

To my inner world, 

To the present moment, 

To the people and the energy around me.

It starts with understanding how I construct my reality— 

How to loosen the rigid beliefs I cling to— 

How to stay open to new possibilities, beyond what my senses perceive.

It’s about making space for difference—for people who are different—for a world that is complex and ever-changing.

And the foundation of Haven is opening to that possibility.

As my Haven journey has unfolded, I’ve come to see that everyone takes their own path. 

At times, that’s been hard. 

I wanted to intern “right,” assist “right,” lead “right.” 

But, like life, it’s not that simple.

There is some structure. 

There are core values. 

But ultimately, it comes down to three things:

Being present. Being relational. Being self-responding.

Never fractured just living as fractals.

Connecting, Connection, Embracing Unknown, Faith

Maybe That’s God

Religion is a fascinating thing.

There are over 10,000 religions in the world. Still, 77% of people align with one of the “big four”—Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, or Buddhism. Each of them offers something similar at the core: a belief in something greater, a sense of belonging, and a guide for how to live.

And yet, so many of the smaller, less visible religions—indigenous, tribal, local—carry just as much weight for the people who practice them. In those spaces, the divine may not be far away or up high, but instead right here—immanent, present in nature, in people, in the universe itself.

Religion is hard to define because it isn’t just about rituals or buildings or sacred texts. It’s about our relationship to what we call holy, sacred, divine. And that relationship has taken countless forms.

In the West, we’ve seen long periods where society shifted away from religion and spirituality altogether. Some believe that turn has left us more isolated, more self-centered, and more disconnected.

Then came the pandemic.

After COVID—after all the fear, separation, grief, and silence—it’s no surprise that people started returning to churches, fellowships, and spiritual communities. When the ground beneath you crumbles, you reach for something steady. Something ancient. Something you can believe in.

But here’s where I get stuck.

After COVID, I didn’t want “normal” back. I felt like the disruption was a call to change—deep, necessary change. But when I spoke with leaders, teams, and friends, I saw something else: a collective relief that we were returning to business as usual.

That crushed me.

It felt like all the grief we carried—individually and collectively—just got swept under the rug. We didn’t process it. We didn’t even really name it.

And then the world kept turning: 

The war in Ukraine. 

Gaza and Israel. 

Another U.S. election cycle that tore into what little unity we had left.

I don’t know how to fix any of this. 

And maybe that’s the point.

Maybe we’re not meant to be “fixed.” 

Maybe we’re not broken—we’re just deeply divided, emotionally exhausted, and stuck in a culture of right/wrong, us/them, saved/damned.

We keep waiting for someone to save us. 

But no one is coming.

It’s not Trump’s fault. It’s not Biden’s. Not Musk’s. Not the GOP or the Democrats. 

It’s us. *We the people.*

Right now, people are turning back to religion as an answer. I understand that impulse. 

It can be a path out of separation. Out of loneliness. Out of despair.

But maybe we don’t need to return to an old religion. 

Maybe it’s time to create something new.

Something rooted in curiosity. 

In shared humanity. 

In a willingness to listen, rather than litigate.

What if we could ask each other: *What matters most to you?* 

And instead of debating or defending, we simply held space for each other’s answers?

What if we could agree—not on beliefs, but on behaviors that help us live together with dignity, empathy, and care?

Maybe we’ve been smart for a long time. 

But we’ve lost resilience. 

We’ve forgotten how to bend without breaking.

Maybe the path forward isn’t through politics or policy alone—but through people. 

Children could guide us. 

Nature could heal us. 

Elders could ground us.

What if we built something around that?

Something that didn’t require one definition of God—but honored the divine in many forms.

Maybe that’s what God is.

Communication, Connecting, Uncategorized, Voice, writing

What Makes A Life

The Hands That Touch Our Hearts

There are so many ways to gather input about a life.
Pictures, stories, social media, music, movement, art—these days, you could probably even feed it all into a prompt and ask AI.

And maybe that becomes the sum of a life.

But is it?

There’s so much about living that stretches beyond our sensory space and time.
Yes, I can gather loads of data and information about a business—and in many ways, that’s enough to create a strategy, a game plan that can determine success or failure, worth or value.

Maybe you can evaluate a company, or even a country’s government, that way.

But not a relationship.
Not a family.
Not a community.

Because of hearts. Emotions. Conflicts. Hidden agendas.
Constructed personalities that only slightly conceal our raw vulnerability.

All that messy middle—that’s definitely missing from a Facebook post or a LinkedIn update. Missing from business strategies and financial results.

A life—
A real relationship—
Is dynamic. Moment to moment. Always changing.

And we are so uncomfortable with that.
We want to control the narrative.
To limit the unlimited.

But that’s only possible when we finally surrender—
To the unknown.
To our ego.

And we don’t do that well.

Because surrender requires trust. Faith. And that is…

LOVE.

We want love to be different.
To be neat. Predictable. Manageable.

But what love is—
Is simply pure consciousness.
Which just is.
Everything.

That’s way beyond our sensory, dimensional selves to grasp.
And our intelligence?
It keeps us from letting go and trusting—energy, God, purity.

We keep thinking we can know it. Capture it. Control it.

But we can’t.

The closest we come is when we surrender.
When we drop to our knees and cry because we don’t know what else to do.
When we sit beside another and simply be—
As they shake, or rage, or cry. Or just be.

When, in a flash, we let go of our righteousness and allow the light—or new information—
In.

Those are the moments I think we come closest to knowing ourselves.
And each other.

Those moments, I believe, are what truly make a life.

The rest—
Is dust.

Communication, Connecting, Embracing Unknown, Voice, writing

Helpless and Held: Parasails, Politics & Paws: Day Three

A swirl of moments—captured through free writes and Feldenkrais. This piece began with a reflection on the year: three events and some sensory explorations. I followed, unsure where it would lead.

Forty minutes later, I found a path—one that offered comfort and clarity in a time of deep chaos and pain.

The events: parasailing, Couples Alive II, and a crisis at home—threaded together by a political landscape spanning three countries. Two I call home. One I visit often.

It begins here:

I didn’t know if I’d be alone or with others. Just two Spanish-speaking men on a boat, a parasail, and me. No conversation—just gestures. A few motions to get me buckled and set. Sunscreen. Sunglasses. A nod. And then—release.

The rope pulled taut. The wind lifted me slowly, then all at once. Up. Up. Away. The boat shrank. The shore disappeared. The air held me like nothing else ever had.

I could sing up there. I could scream.
I did sing. I did scream.
Arms wide open. The wind caught me—tossed me, popped me forward and back.

In a plane, that would’ve terrified me.
But here, dangling from a sail—I felt free.

More than free. I felt possible.

There was a moment—I touched the clip. Thought about unhooking. Not out of fear, but out of desire.
A strange call to fly solo.
And also… a pull to stay.

Not for safety. But for the two men below.
I didn’t want to cause them trouble. That mattered.

That same push and pull—between rising and staying—echoes now.
Just weeks ago. Days before the election.
Up north with Couples.

The Haven. Safe. Then the call—ZuZu was hurt.
Far from home. But wrapped in something solid.
A circle of friends.
Steady eyes. Open arms.

My heart raced. My jaw clenched.
I tasted metal—but I wasn’t alone.
I felt helpless. But also held.

I watched CrisMarie pace the floor, phone to her ear.
The possibility of ZuZu gone.
Or our dogs separated.
The surgeon’s certainty: if she survives, they can’t be together.

Others spoke. Stories of dogs. Of grief. Of connection.
Pain, yes. But it was shared.
Held.

Helpless. And held.

While back home, ZuZu recovered.
Friends gathered. Held the fort.
Until we could return.

Now, I’m back in the U.S.
ZuZu curls in my lap. Rosie snug at my feet.
Everything back to normal.
Close. Safe. Cozy.

And yet—helplessness stirs again.

Not about the dogs this time.
It’s my country.
The headlines. The rage. The noise.

That same bitter taste in my mouth.
That same rising panic.

But no circle of friends here.
The Haven still exists—but distant now.
What surrounds me is the cluttered, chaotic hum of a nation at war with itself.

Still—I remember the parasail.
Mexico. The beach.

I remember the moment of lift.
Rising above the mess. Not to escape—but to see.

There is a way to be with terror without becoming it.
A way to hold chaos and not unclip.

I can scream. I can sing.
I can let go without falling.
I can remember the air. The sky.
The clarity that comes when I stop gripping so tight.

I don’t have to drown in the headlines.
Or disappear into helplessness.

There’s a space between it all.
A pause between breaths.
A widening above the noise.

I can carry that space with me.
Back down.

Because this is still home.
The weight of ZuZu. Rosie curled at my feet.

The dogs are here. My heart is here.
And maybe—if I remember the wind—
I don’t have to leave to feel free.