Finding Samara Part 1
When we tell people that our new retreat center will be called Samara, the first reaction is slightly quizzical. When we then explain what a samara is, the second, more telling reaction, is one of delight. Samaras are the winged seed pods that we see spinning off trees in the fall. We’re probably most familiar with the helicopters from maple trees, but they also come from ash, elm and tulip trees. We selected this name for several reasons, but one, is that the entire idea of a samara tends to bring people right back to a state of child-like joy and delight in the wonder of the natural world. Samaras play at the edges of your mind, bringing back half remembered moments from childhood- fists full of samaras tossed high in the air, samaras spinning and fluttering all around, and you, head thrown back, twirling, laughing in the middle. Our hope is to create a sanctuary where people realign themselves with the rhythms of nature. A place where hearts expand large enough to contain all the joy of this beautifully messy world. A place where joy is defined as astrophysicist Jeff Foster defines it: “...the willingness to hold despair like a newborn, breathe into it, give it space in your vast heart.” A place where, as Lenonard Cohen says, our cracks are the way light gets in.
Bob and Rebecca and I all met several years ago in a course on grief. As the opening activity, the entire class built a community altar. One at a time we walked to the center of the room and placed upon the altar cloth objects that made us feel whole and connected. The class was large and this took some time, but it became an immense outpouring of all the joyful things in this world that allowed us to carry our grief. Complete strangers to me, I watched as Bob came and gently laid trekking poles on the altar. For her turn, Rebecca scattered seashells across the cloth. Something in my heart resonated with these two. Something nodded and knew- these are my people. Years later we had become close friends. Rebecca and I were having an evening together one night with another dear friend of ours, Liz. We all shared from the heart that evening about purpose and desire, and I confessed that for the past few decades I had nurtured a vision of a retreat center in my heart. This vision morphed over the years, dimming, and brightening, but it was always there, calling me forward persistently. I knew this was my ultimate calling. Something in my story resonated for Rebecca. She carefully listened as I detailed my years of desire, then informed me that she and Bob had parallel dreams. Before long, Bob joined us and the three of us were meeting over chilaquiles to play with the idea. We quickly realized how aligned our visions were for creating space that would intentionally connect people to the natural world. Could we actually do this together? Before we had finished breakfast, all three of us knew we had to try.
By design, samaras do not fall in a straight line directly off the tree. If they did, saplings would compete with the parent tree for nutrients and sunlight. Wings allow these seeds to catch the wind, stay aloft, and sail far away. As Samara becomes a reality, we hope to create a space where peace, kindness, and love of the natural world nestle deep like seeds in all who come to participate. We hope that all of our guests carry these seeds into their daily lives and in turn share them with others.
Already since Samara’s inception, we have come so far. And perhaps, this is partially due to the fact that none of the three of us have ever followed a direct route in life. Each of us has arrived at Samara with a unique set of skills we gathered specifically by wandering far.
