The Power of Storytelling

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“How can The Open Space of Democracy be perceived as controversial when it’s about life, free speech, beauty, embracing questions and the interconnectivity of life?” she asks. “Why is it controversial to be a conservationist? Why is a writer of natural history, who focuses on landscape and culture, perceived as radical? The ultimate question, of course, is what are we afraid of?”

Williams continues to explore difficult questions and urges others to do the same. Today, as the gathering at Camarillo closes, she makes one last appeal. “Please know your power,” she says, searching the faces around her, making eye contact and acknowledging the eager smiles. “Find something that matters deeply to you and pursue it. Question. Stand. Speak. Act. Make us uncomfortable. Make us think.”

“I believe in facing life directly, to not be afraid of risking oneself for fear of losing too much.” I paused. Here was my mother standing outside the shadow of cancer and my grandmother standing inside the threshold of old age. These were the women who had seen me through birth. These were the women I would see through death.

The three of us stared out at the lake, the color of Chinese porcelain, and were hypnotized by the waves.

“How do you find refuge in change?” I asked quietly.

Mimi put her broad hand on mine. “I don’t know …” she whispered.  “You just go with it.”

Refuge: An Unnatural History of Family and Place

The heart is the house of empathy whose door opens when we receive the pain of others. This is where bravery lives, where we find our mettle to give and receive, to love and be loved, to stand in the center of uncertainty with strength, not fear, understanding this is all there is. The heart is the path to wisdom because it dares to be vulnerable in the presence of power. Our power lies in our love of our homelands.

The Open Space of Democracy

Not far an old juniper stood in the clearing, deeply rooted and gnarled. I had never seen such a knowledgeable tree. Perhaps it was the silver sheen or its shredded bark that reminded me of my grandmother, her windblown hair in the desert, her weathered face, the way she held me as a child. I wanted to climb into the arms of this tree.

With both hands on one of its strongest boughs, I pulled myself up and lifted my right leg over the branch so I was straddling it. Leaning back into the body of the juniper, I brought my knees up to my chest and nestled in — hidden, perfectly shaded from the heat. I had forgotten what it felt like to really be held.

Hours pass, who knows how long; the angle of light shifted. Something had passed between us, evident by the change in my own countenance, the slowing of my pulse, and the softness of my eyes as though I was awakening from a desert trance.

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