This Byron Fellowship Reflection Post was written by Lauren Owen ’19. It was originally published to her personal blog on August 24, 2019. You can view the original post here. Photos credit of Lauren Owen.
My invitation to Byron came at the worst, or maybe the best, time. It was our busiest and most stressful season at work, and Byron became one of those things that I pushed to the back of my mind because I had already done that thing where I preemptively told myself it wasn’t my time so it wouldn’t be as hard when the official “No” came down. But there it came, that little email notification. The simple subject line: Congratulations! 2019 Byron Fellowship. I barely read those first sentences before I called the person that I always call when I have news: my mom. She was thrilled for me, and just said, “you really wanted this.” I replied, “yeah, I did.” And I began to cry.
Little did I know that those May tears would be a harbinger of August tears when I finally arrived at Byron. I wrote the blog below because I was so caught up by the feeling of Byron but couldn’t make the translation work between feeling and the English language. I’ve reflected often on my Byron experience, and the importance of tears in that space. The water from my eyes acted as a self-made river connecting all these tributary moments together, allowing them to continue to flow and change and curve. I continue to be grateful to those tears for pointing out moments that needed noticing.
I’ve started this post so many times, and I’ve deleted everything that I’ve written. Three weeks have passed since I attended the Byron Fellowship, and there is just a force field of writer’s block surrounding that whole week. I think I left the week with an entirely new understanding of myself and my place in the world, but I’ve never wrestled with words so much in the pursuit of telling you how I got there.
And then I thought about how emotional of a week it was. I don’t know if I’ve ever cried more in one week in any other point in my life. So, here are some of the times that I cried. This isn’t an objective account, this isn’t comprehensive, this isn’t a curriculum for Byron. It’s literally just some of the times that I cried.
I wrote a letter and then read it out to the large group. About one sentence in, I felt as if I’d made a terrible mistake, but I weep-talked disjointedly through the rest of it. There was such a painful history behind the words that I had to say, and I had to relive that history as I was reading to a group of people I’d met less than 24 hours before.
The giants that I was in the company of for a week shared stories of heartbreak, trauma, struggle, and pain.
I had a conversation that I had been avoiding for 10 months. The outcome of that conversation was a best case scenario that I hadn’t even allowed myself to hope for. The tears came not from sadness, but relief, as if the weight of the anxiety of preparing for the conversation was sitting directly on my tear ducts.
I read aloud my vision for the world.
Once upon a time, there was a division between people and nature. People didn’t get the chance to go outside, and there was a physical and mental health crisis. Everyday, rather than risk the dangers of playing outside, children had to stay in. There were people who wanted to be part of nature, but just didn’t know how. People walked through life without knowing nature’s healing impact on them and their responsibility to nature. One day, a figure emerged from the forest wearing Chacos. Someone who had always enjoyed nature, but had to lead herself to deeply loving it. A person that had struggled and been hurt and used that to help others to heal their own hurt. She showed them the gifts of nature and gave them comfort and reassurance in an uncomfortable and unfamiliar experience. Because of that, schools took outdoor education as seriously as traditional education. Families went outside together. There was purposeful inclusion of nature near urban centers. Children, teens, adults, and elders renewed their sense of discovery, play, curiosity, and stewardship. Until finally, there was such a deep connection between people and nature that the people not only became healthy mentally and physically, but made the protection and health of their outdoor spaces a priority too. You don’t have to “go” anywhere to be in nature because the nature is all around you.
I had the opportunity to hear the visions of others.
I was able to read words written by people that I love and that have been incredible role models for me.
I panicked. I want so desperately for my vision to come to fruition, and I may not be the one to see it through. It’s too important for little old me to take it on. I was told that I didn’t have to have the answers. I was encouraged to stay in the emotion, to feel into the tears. I was standing in a road, face to face with a person that knew just what to say, as people and cars and the world continued to move around us.
I sat and considered the mountains, the ancestor mountains.
We sang together. The words were breathtaking, and the sound was mesmerizing.
Home, I’m going home
I need a land to heal my soul
Take me home, take me home
Over the green, green fields
And far away
Home to the motherland
Home to the motherland
Home to the motherland
Over the green, green fields
And far away
I laughed to the point where I couldn’t breathe.
I said some words out loud that I had never said out loud before. Something that felt very significant, because I knew it was something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Some words that I thought I’d say 10, 20, 30 years from now, when I’ve got my life together, whatever that means. “I want to write a book.” My mentor smiled.
My flock gifted me with acknowledgments. These people and their voices that I had fallen so in love with were overwhelming in their generous words.
I was asked to consider my inner critic and what she says to me. She’s terribly mean and knows the perfect words to say to break me down. She’s also very convincing.
There was a point where I was crying so hard that I was folded up in the fetal position. At a time where I felt like the world’s biggest disruption in a quiet discussion time, all I felt were hands, silently but steadily bringing comfort.
There was a church next to the fellowship hall where we gathered everyday, and every afternoon, this mystery organ player would practice the organ for a few hours. As we sat in our flock outside, the organ music added to the symphony of our work. My grandma played the organ. I thought of her every time those first notes were played every day. As we dispersed, I took a quick moment to sit inside the empty sanctuary and listen before I began my journey home. The organ loft was situated against the back wall in such a way that if you sat in the very back row, the organ player couldn’t see you. I didn’t want them to know that I was there.
I had to say goodbye.
