Sage

I wake to the cold space beside me. Dash’s side of the bed has already cooled, a faint indentation the only sign he was there. I lie still, listening to the sounds of the wind blowing through the trees. My body feels almost normal again, the fever just a dull memory, but there’s a tiredness that lingers. The days since have been long and busy, pulling Dash and I into different corners of camp, each with our own tasks, our own worries.

Pulling myself from bed, I dress in layers, pulling my scarf tighter against the chill, readying myself for the quiet weight of other people’s pain.

Stepping into camp, I’m immediately greeted by Mara, a woman who recently lost her husband. She and I enjoyed talking and she’s probably the closest person I have to a friend here in this camp since I have purposely kept a respectful distance from others to allow the integrity of therapy to work. Mara’s eyes are wide, her shoulders hunched, and I can see the strain there, the helplessness that lingers even when there’s nothing left to fear but the unknown.

We walk together toward the fire pit where people are already gathering. I nod and greet them each by name, moving from one familiar face to another. The task is simple—listen, ground, give a sense of calm—but it’s never that easy. And today, with whispers floating through the air like embers, it’s harder than ever to settle the worry in their eyes.

Between sessions, as I move toward the next person waiting for me, I catch sight of Dash on the far side of camp, his gaze fixed on something distant, his shoulders drawn but strong. There’s a quiet strength in the way he moves through the day, a steadiness I know is there to keep everyone at ease, even if they don’t realize it. I pause, just a moment, letting that thought settle before I return to the work in front of me. People here depend on both of us in ways I never anticipated.

As I talk with Mara later in the day during her meetup time, she stumbles over her words, sharing fragments of things she’s overheard—rumors of other camps falling, of people taken or hurt. She wipes her eyes quickly, embarrassed, but I reach out, resting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright,” I say, even though inside, the fears gnaw at me, too. “You don’t have to carry it alone.” The words are for her, but I can feel them echo in me, a quiet reminder that I’m still struggling to accept.

After we finish, I move from person to person, each face marked with the strain of survival, of the worry that seems to infect everyone here. I listen to their fears, try to absorb their worries like they’re my own. But the weight grows heavier, settling into me, and I wonder, as I often do, if I’m strong enough to carry it.

The sound of low voices draws my attention back to the fire pit, where a small group has gathered, huddled close, shoulders tense with quiet worry. Mara lingers nearby, her gaze fixed on me, as if seeking an answer I’m not sure I have.

Taking a breath, I move closer to them, gesturing for them to gather around, and they sit, waiting. I focus on my own breathing, drawing in a slow, steady breath, and when I speak, my voice is low, meant to be calming. “Anyone up for a little guided meditation?” I say, my hands motioning for them to settle in, to close their eyes. “Remember that meditation has a few purposes. One is for us to learn how to observe our thoughts without assigning judgement or meaning to them. Another is to calm the mind and center ourselves and to reconnect with our bodies, letting our body know that we are safe.”

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As I see the individuals settle in with eyes closed, the firelight casting warm shadows on their faces, I begin. “Imagine your fears, your worries, as something small you can hold in your hands.” My own hands close over an imagined weight, trying to believe the words I’m saying. It’s okay if it takes a moment but let’s gather up all the fears and worries into our hands.” I pause for several moments, focusing on the task for myself as well. “See it, let it be there. Don’t push it away,” I encourage gently. Some of the tension eases from their shoulders, the lines on their faces softening, and I feel my own breath calm, too, as I speak.

“Remember, you can sit in discomfort. It always passes. Often you prolong our suffering by using avoidance as a tactic that feels like safety, but really, is only keeping you in a state of anticipation of pain.” I allow quite for a few moments, taking slow breaths before continuing. “If you accept and sit with the feeling, and say ‘Hi, feeling. You are welcome here,’ the funny thing is, it usually leaves soon after, having been acknowledged. It’s crazy how your acceptance allows movement of feelings that they flow through you and continue on their way.” I relax more as I remember these great truths.

“There’s a difference between resignation and acceptance,” I continue, the words flowing more easily now. “Resignation feels heavy, like you have no power. It’s the doom and gloom of your thoughts and feelings. It’s a ‘might as well give up and be miserable’ mindset. But acceptance…” I pause, watching the flickering light as it warms each face. “Acceptance lets you hold that fear without letting it take over. You can know it’s there but choose to keep moving forward. It’s a “yep, that happened, or is happening. What next?’ Do you hear the movement in that?”

Their breathing slows, the air thick with the quiet presence of shared understanding, and I feel the weight of their fears ease, just a little. They’re still there, I know, but for a moment, they feel lighter.

“So, lean into acceptance. I want you to allow movement so the paralysis of fear won’t be in charge of your life. You are here. You are alive. You have community.” I allow quiet for several moments before quietly continuing, “How’s that worry and fear that you were holding in your hands? A little more manageable? I want you to grab a clear container and put it on a shelf in your mind and put whatever is still in your hands into the container. It’s clear. You can see it. You aren’t hiding it or pretending it’s not there. But, you also know where it is when you need it, and it can sit there while you go through your day and live your life.”

When the meditation ends, the group disperses slowly, some lingering by the fire, others moving back to their tasks. Mara gives me a grateful nod, her eyes clearer than before, and I nod back, a faint warmth settling over me.

As I walk to my next meetup, I catch sight of Dash again, talking with Branson, his expression focused, his hands moving as he gestures toward the distant tree line. I can tell he’s in his element here, working to keep everyone safe. The way he stands, his stance steady, it’s almost comforting, though I’d never admit it out loud.

But I can’t shake the feeling that it’s never enough, that no matter what we do, we’re just waiting for something to come and undo all the work we’ve done. The whispers linger in my mind, and I wonder how much longer we can keep this place safe. I know I’m not following my own meditation advice as I let the fears in.

For a moment, I think about going to Dash, about sharing what I feel, but I brush the thought aside. There’s too much to do, too many people who need me to be steady. Maybe I’ll find him later, when the camp is quiet, when the darkness gives us the space to let down our guard.

For now, I steady myself, moving to the next person waiting for me, hoping that somewhere in all of this, I can find enough strength for both them and myself.