Original artwork by Nicola Visser (justartworks.org)

There is a forest to which I have always belonged.
Even before I could name it, before I could trace its moss-soft pathways with poems and stories, I knew the soothing rush of its rivers through my bones.

But there was a time when I stopped hearing it. Not all at once… just a slow, almost imperceptible vanishing. Until the voices of deadlines, duties and “how things are done” grew louder than the language of leaves and lichens.

It's strange, isn’t it? To belong utterly, and yet to live as though you are apart. To be a root in the soil… and yet still feel untethered.

Every now and then, the forest would find me.
A circle of women holding silence as I wept.
A conversation where someone truly listened without fixing or turning away.
A moment by the sea where the wind blew me edgeless.
In those moments, I could feel the green threads again… the ones longing to weave me whole.

It is through five years of training in the art and practice of Focusing, as taught by the philosopher Eugene Gendlin, that I am learning to follow these threads inward… to give voice to an embodied knowing that grows from within, before words.

More recently, in late 2024, I stepped into a two-year teacher training in Thinking at the Edge (TAE) with Beatrice Blake: a way of thinking that begins in the body, in what we already know but have not yet found words for.

TAE does not borrow the concepts of others, stitching them into our own. Instead it draws out what is implicit, what the body has known for years or decades, waiting for words that are truly its own.

Often, these projects reach into what we most deeply care about. Not to transplant another’s ideas or words into something that justifies our beliefs or practices, but rather to notice and articulate what has been growing in us all along.

For me, it is a lifelong journey: learning how to belong… how to unravel the tangles that have kept me separate from the living tapestry that holds us all.

In my current TAE project — exploring how a community collective can flourish without succumbing to the fragmenting patterns of individualism and competition — a word surfaced that I had never seen before, and yet it felt like it had been calling to me my whole life:

be-member

The word didn’t arrive all at once.
It came like a mycelial network… threads surfacing here and there, connecting moments that, at first, seemed unrelated.

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One thread began in a women’s circle in 2007, in the rural town of Denmark in Western Australia. We sat in a candle-lit circle, sipping cups of fresh lemongrass tea, listening without comment as each woman spoke.
No advice. No fixing. No haste to comfort so the tears would stop.
Just presence. Just witnessing.
I left that night with an unmistakable sense: this is how belonging feels.

Another thread ran through a co-created community arts project, Unravelling: Denmark Stories, for the Brave New Works Festival in 2009. Fifteen women sat in a circle, sensing into a kind of shared knowing of how our stories longed to be woven together and offered to the wider community.

It wasn’t about forcing a plan.
It was about listening together for what was possible between us — something called through the field itself, larger and more important than any of our individual preferences.

We became the banks of the river, giving it shape while allowing the current to find its own direction.
Each eddy, each snag, had to be met and acknowledged before the flow could move forward again.
Every voice mattered… and none more than another’s.

We were equals.
We were custodians.
We were listening for what wanted to arise through us.
I left that room with the same deep knowing: this too is how belonging feels.

This pattern of listening to what wants to emerge has continued to weave through my life, most recently in my work with Befriend, a community-tending non-profit in Perth, Western Australia.

Here, we don’t arrive with ready-made solutions or fixed agendas. We walk alongside people, groups, and communities, trusting that they already carry the wisdom they need to navigate their own way forward.

Our role is to help nurture the conditions for that wisdom to surface — slowing down, sensing deeply, and letting the shape of things emerge from within the community itself. In these spaces, I feel the same threads I have known in other circles: the quiet joy of co-stewarding something alive and ever-changing, moving forward in its own way.

Original artwork by Nicola Visser (justartworks.org)

In one of my recent TAE sessions, I saw it clearly: something that symbolised my felt sense of the forest we are both tending and becoming:

A human form stood with a tiny green tree-sprout rising between their feet — its roots deep in the earth, its trunk and leaves growing inside the human being, filling them from within.

They were not alone. All around, other beings stood in a circle, each with their own inner sprout, all tending the same living forest together.
And as they tended, the forest was tending them.
Life itself was reclaiming these beings, re-membering them into the whole living system.

The sprout had a word for me:

be-member (remember and be)

I sat with it for days, weeks, tracing its threads through my life.
It felt ancient, as if the word had been spoken in other tongues long before I arrived… and yet utterly personal, grown from my own soil.

I began to see how be-member is not something to be earned, claimed, or granted… but something life calls us into when we are ready.

A re-membering from within.
A restoration of the whole.
A re-storying of who we are… together.

Here is what the word told me it means:

It is the paradox of belonging:
We have never left, and yet we can live as though we are apart.

We are already of the forest, the river, the mycelial weave… and yet we can choose to step toward them, again and again… until there is no more space between us — only the hum of the forest in our bones.

Acknowledgement:

With deep gratitude to Nicola Visser of justartworks.org — for her beautiful, heart-sensed artwork, and for her encouragement to bring this story of be-member into a wider world.

Photo by Madushanka Bandara on Unsplash

Sometimes that old sense of not belonging swirls up inside me like a storm. Like upside-down rain drumming through my core. A gravitational pull so hard and deep, the rest of my life fragments into pieces I can hardly see.

Getting through these storms feels like walking underwater with a weighted belt… not knowing if I’ll ever get to see the sky again.

My body knows these storms. By now, it’s weathered countless versions of them. Some days it doesn’t take much to trigger one—
an unkind word, a critical glance, a hint of doubt or disbelief.
And then the wave comes.

But five years into practising ‘Focusing’ (an embodied, deep listening process), I’m learning to weather them with more faith and courage.

Faith that the sun will shine again. Faith that this too shall pass.

Courage that even when the storm feels unbearable, there’s a way I’ve learned to be with it… a way that helps me reach the other side sooner.

Turning Toward, Not Away

Someone asked me recently, “Have you managed to overcome many of your patterns thanks to Focusing?”

I laughed. Not because the question was silly, but because it pointed to a common misunderstanding. Focusing is not about overcoming anything.

It’s not about fixing or deleting parts of ourselves (or others) that we don’t like. It’s a practice of turning toward them—with friendliness, with curiosity, with care.

We offer invitations like:

“Hello, I’m here now. I see you.”

“Can I sit with you a little while?”

“Maybe you could let me know what you’re not wanting?”

“Maybe you could let me know what you are protecting me from?”

And often, when we truly listen, we discover that what we had labelled as “bad” or “stuck” is actually a form of love. A fierce protector, doing all it can to keep us safe.

That’s what happened for me recently, when I sat with this familiar pattern that I’m calling the ‘Storm of Not Belonging’.

It rose up inside me like a force of nature…
wild, consuming, stopping me in my tracks.

I couldn’t see inside it. I couldn’t escape it—I could only be present, letting it know I wasn’t going anywhere.

And slowly it revealed the intricacy of its shape in my body. Not as destructive chaos, but as a protector. I understood how it held me frozen, so I wouldn’t risk being seen… or judged, or rejected.

And when I asked what it was protecting me from, it didn’t show anger, it showed heartbreak.

A jagged grief rose in my chest. Old, sharp, familiar. Something to do with my father. The impossibility of being “enough” in his eyes. The shame and rejection I experienced with him was the weather system in which this storm found its form.

It said to me: “Better to be engulfed by a blinding storm than to feel that heartbreak again.”

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The Felt Sense

This is one of the many gifts of Focusing: knowing how to sit with what feels difficult or uncertain.
Sensing how it lives in the body.
Listening, slowly, for the deeper story it holds.

Psychologist and philosopher Eugene Gendlin coined the term felt sense to describe this inner kind of knowing: “the body-sense of the situation.”

He noticed that therapy clients who could pause and feel this fuzzy, bodily “something” (before they had words to describe it) were far more likely to experience real, lasting change.

In other words, our bodies know the way forward.
We just need to slow down… and listen.
And this isn’t only personal.

When we slow down together… when we listen in groups and communities with this same kind of presence, something shifts.

We begin to find more holistic, life forward ways… together.

The Web of Life

Recently I listened to John Seed (author of Thinking Like a Mountain) and Skye Cielita Flor talk with Nate Hagens about ecological identity—a remembering of ourselves not as separate spectators, but as living strands in the web of life.

And it struck me: Focusing is one way we remember that identity… a pathway to ecological belonging.

As we bring attention and care to what’s inside, we begin to re-member ourselves—not just as individuals, but as within a wider living field.

We begin to sense that our grief, our pain, our longing to belong… is not just ours.

It’s cultural.
Ancestral.
Planetary.

This pattern of Not Belonging is not only mine.
It’s a response to a worldview that teaches us (early and often) to conform:
To look and act in a certain way. To seek external validation.
To cut ourselves into parts, and exile what doesn’t fit.

Gendlin called this kind of thinking the “unit model”: a worldview that sees life as made up of separate, interchangeable parts… like a machine.

But that’s not how living systems work.
Life is complex, interwoven, relational. Always in process.
And our bodies know this.

Focusing helps us return to this knowing… that we are woven into a much wider living system than our minds alone can ever contain.

The Gifts Hidden in Exile

As I stayed with my embodied sense of this Storm of Not Belonging, another thread revealed itself.

It wasn’t just about shame or grief.
I saw something else: the need for someone to say “yes” before I could trust my own voice, my own creative impulse.

A lifetime of abandoning my ideas the moment they weren’t welcomed with open arms or encouraging words.
A lifetime of waiting—for permission, for reassurance—before I could believe in myself.

This too is a pattern. A survival strategy learned early.
And beneath it? A core longing: to trust my own knowing.

When I asked my body what it would feel like—to believe in myself, even without approval or support—I felt something shift.

A breath. An expansion. A quiet strength.
Like the prow of a boat, steady in rough seas. Not rigid.
Just connected and guided by an inner compass.

This is the kind of discovery that Focusing makes possible.
It’s not conceptual. It’s a felt shift you can carry forward in your body. It’s real transformation.

The Gift Discovery process supports this too. It helps us find the gold that sparkles through our most difficult experiences.

It helps us get in touch with what matters…
The ways we care. The contributions we long to make…
Often because of the very things we’ve longed for or missed.

These are the unique threads we each carry…
And which our community needs in order to thrive.

When we discover our gifts in this way—from the inside out—we’re more likely to act from wholeness… rather than from shame or obligation or fear.

And when we do this in community, we create cultures of reciprocal listening, acceptance and belonging. We discover how to meet life’s challenges together.

Myth-lover Sophie Strand, author of The Body is a Doorway, writes:

The Freedom Bird

Photo by Happysurd Photography on Unsplash

There’s a traditional tale I love called The Freedom Bird.

I first heard it on the Dragonfly Tales podcast by Emily Hanna-Grazebrook, who shares that versions exist in Thailand, Vietnam, and India.

It tells of a hunter who enters the forest seeking something beautiful to kill and mount on his wall.

He finds a bird with feathers all the colours of the rainbow.

He tells it, “If you can sing a song as beautiful as you look, I won’t kill you.”

The bird sings:
“Na na na na na naaah!”
A simple, silly tune.

The hunter finds it ugly, unacceptable… and shoots the bird.

But no matter what he does to silence it—chopping it into a hundred pieces, boiling it, burying it, locking it in a box, and sinking in the river—he keeps hearing that song!

Eventually, the box drifts downstream and is found by children.
When they open it, out fly one hundred rainbow birds singing that same tune… One that the children delight in!

When the hunter hears the bird’s song in the forest again, he says:

“Now I know who you are. You are the Freedom Bird.
And no matter what I do to silence your song, you will only multiply and grow stronger.”

For me, this is a story of what happens when we try to destroy what we don’t understand or accept…

In nature, in our communities, or within ourselves.

Listening as an Ecological Practice

So many of us treat our own painful or uncomfortable patterns the way the hunter treated the bird.

We try to bury them. Dissect them. Replace them. Destroy them.

But Focusing teaches us another way:
To sit beside them.
To feel their shape.
To listen for what they’re carrying.
And to trust that when they are fully heard, they change—not because we force them to, but because life moves forward when it’s met with acceptance and respect.

This, to me, is an ecological practice.

It's how we learn to think and feel with life, not against it.

It’s why I’m so passionate about sharing this practice with others, and in community, as a Focusing guide and teacher.

I believe it’s one of the ways we can begin to create a world in which belonging is not conditional.

Where we honour each other’s complexity.

Where we grow resilient, caring communities by listening—both inwardly and outwardly—with gentleness and respect.

As we welcome what we have feared or rejected in ourselves—and in each other…
Something changes.
Something grows.
Something remembers how to be whole.

May we be like those children by the river:
Curious. Willing to open the box.
Willing to let the song of the exile rise again.

If this piece speaks to something in you, I’d love to hear your reflections in the comments.

You’re also welcome to share it with others who might be weathering their own storms—inner or outer—and quietly rediscovering their song.

Sophie Strand says: “Don’t write a story you think will be hip. Write the story that will save your life. If it saves yours, it will probably save someone else’s.”

My Focusing practice and my passion for Gift Discovery have given me the courage to share personal stories I once kept hidden. Stories that now feel like threads others might recognise, or even be strengthened by.

I am a Certified Focusing Trainer and Practitioner, a Certified Core Gift Discovery Trainer, and a Community Story Weaver with Befriend in Western Australia.

I offer courses, workshops, and one-to-one guidance in Focusing and Gift Discovery—supporting people to listen deeply to themselves and one another… and to grow more connected, caring, and resilient communities where all gifts are welcome.

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

There’s an old tale I’m carrying… or perhaps it carries me… of a woman who is also a fox.

You’ll find her at the edge of things, not quite tame, not quite safe. Her eyes glint with a kind of wild knowing that some find intriguing… and others unsettling. Or strange.

In Siberian and northern European folklore, the Fox Woman often appears at dusk, at the threshold between light and dark, between this world and the otherworld. She might show up at a man’s cabin, barefoot in the snow. Or be glimpsed just beyond the edge of the firelight, watching… perhaps longing to enter the circle, but unsure how.

In some of these stories, she shapeshifts into a woman and does her very best to live among humans: to love, to contribute, to belong. But things rarely end well. Sooner or later, someone notices her fur. Her eyes. Her way of feeling too deeply or saying too much. And a door closes.

I’ve known that door. And so have many friends and colleagues over the years.

It doesn’t always slam. More often, it clicks quietly shut.

You know the moment: someone tears up in a meeting, and the room shifts. The awkward silence. The glance away.

Or the time a brave truth is spoken… not to stir up conflict, but to name something real, something everyone feels but no one has yet said. And it gets redirected. Reframed. Labelled as emotional. Or met with a well-meaning referral to take it somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Somewhere more appropriate.

We’ve been taught that it’s not professional, maybe not even safe, to show certain emotions in the workplace. We’ve learned how to stay in the lane of what’s acceptable, what’s comfortable, what’s containable.

What we haven’t always been taught is how to listen without fixing. How to hold space for tears without treating them as a problem.

As someone who took decades to learn how to cry more easily, I can tell you: I’m not asking for advice. I’m not falling apart. Mostly, I just want to be heard. Maybe you do too.

Maybe our tears aren’t only our own. Maybe they belong to all of us.

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I remember Bruce Anderson of the Core Gift Institute sharing that tears are a generational responsibility. He was taught by Malidoma Somé that within every family line, someone carries the tears. Not as a burden, but as a calling. To weep what others couldn’t. To release what was never spoken.

Perhaps this is true in our workplaces too.

The first time I truly felt I belonged in community was in my early forties. I was in a women’s circle, held in a space where I could cry my deepest grief… without fear, without anyone trying to fix me. Just presence. Just witnessing.

Since then, I’ve tried to welcome tears in workshops, in family, in friendships. And yet, I still don’t always feel my own tears are welcome. There’s a subtle difference between being kind and being comfortable with emotion. And it matters.

There’s much to weep for in our modern world. And tears can be a healthy form of recognition, of the pain of separation from nature, from each other, from ourselves.

During a workshop with Bruce Anderson, I once wrote:

Sometimes, tears are not a crisis. They are a doorway. A sign that something matters deeply.

We speak often of belonging these days — in our teams, our organisations, our communities. But I wonder: what parts of ourselves are we being asked to leave at the door in order to belong?

The Fox Woman reminds me that there’s a kind of wisdom that doesn’t come through books or learning. It comes through the body. Through the heart. Through staying close to what hurts and what matters.

And maybe… just maybe… we need to make space for that kind of wisdom.

Not just in therapy rooms, but in places where decisions are made. In meetings. In circles of care. In everyday workplaces that genuinely want to honour the whole person.

Because there are people sitting quietly right now, in your team, your office, your community, who carry gifts they don’t yet know how to bring. Not because they’re unwilling, but because they’re waiting to see if it’s safe.

I don’t have answers. But I have questions I’m learning to live with.

What if tears don’t mean crisis?
What if not knowing is welcomed?
What if people don’t have to shapeshift to belong?

I want to live and work in a world where the Fox Woman doesn’t have to hide.

Where she can stretch her limbs beside the fire, speak in her own voice, and be met with something other than fear.

Where we all can.

Photo by Dušan veverkolog on Unsplash

‘The Red Lake’ - my favourite place to float & contemplate in Denmark, WA.
Photo Credit: Annabelle Arnold

Lately, I’ve been listening for the subtle qualities that help people find their footing when things fall apart — not just in the wake of disasters, but in those everyday storms: the quiet disorientation of burnout, overwhelm, isolation. The slow ache of not knowing who or where to turn to.

What keeps us afloat in those moments?

In recent conversations through my work with Resilient Together Wanneroo, I’ve heard story after story that points to something simple and deep: we don’t always need to know what to do. We just need to feel connected. To be part of a social fabric that holds us — not perfectly, not professionally, but relationally.

I’ve been thinking of a recent visit I made to Denmark — not the country, but the coastal town in WA, where I once lived and helped weave a creative writing and storytelling community. Even now, years later, I could feel it still holding me. The community we grew through stories and shared meals and wild experiments had taken root. And though my body had moved away, some deeper thread of connection hadn’t.

Gathering to laugh and play with old friends and new - in Denmark, Western Australia.
Photo Credit: Annabelle Arnold

It reminded me: the relationships we nurture don’t always disappear. Sometimes they become the very ground we stand on, quietly offering their support when we need it most.

That’s what we mean when we talk about “relational readiness.” Not a plan, or a checklist — but a culture. A way of being together that softens the edges of hard times.

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In our Vital Village Culture team meetings, we’ve begun to name some of the qualities that support this way of being:

• Patience, even when clarity hasn’t come

• Playfulness, especially in uncertainty

• Connection, even when it’s easier to withdraw

• Acceptance — not as resignation, but as a return to what’s real

These are not heroic acts. They are quiet practices. Often unnoticed. But they matter more than we think.

So I’m asking myself: what am I weaving, in my own life, that might hold someone later — including myself?

And I wonder: what are you weaving?
Or maybe, what’s already been woven, that you can lean back into now?

Sometimes, the support we need isn’t something new. It’s something old and enduring. Something still quietly holding us.

Come join the conversation

If this resonates — if you're holding questions about connection, support, and what helps us thrive in hard times — you’re warmly invited to join us for a Vital Village Voices gathering.

These are slow, spacious conversations where we share stories, explore what community care really means, and reflect on what supports us — not just in big disasters, but in the quieter storms of life.

At our last gathering, someone left with the intention to put up a sign on their front fence:

“Come talk. I’m here.”

Several left with a deeper commitment to growing a neighbourhood network where they live.

Others spoke about finding hope, remembering their gifts, and feeling a little more confident that they are not alone.

These are small things. But they ripple.

👉 Register for the next session here

And if you’re part of a community group, organisation, or neighbourhood that wants to explore how to grow a culture of care — I’d love to hear from you. We’re walking alongside local leaders and changemakers to support Vital Village culture transformations in real time. This work doesn’t belong to any one person or group — it’s something we’re co-weaving, together.

📩 You can reach me via the contact button here on Substack, or email: nicola@befriend.org.au

Let’s keep growing what holds us.

Wherever I look, I see horrible thinking and toxic behaviour. Some people believe they are better than others. I wonder what the future might be for our children and grandchildren.

I might think the upheaval and violence doesn’t affect me or my immediate family, but it does. We are all drinking from the same pond. The privileged and powerful might be more comfortable now, but life will have its way. Throughout history, extreme gaps in wealth and income have been unsustainable and there has been a leveling.

Yet, still, "How do you pack when you have no idea where you are going?" — Nora Bateson

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I am moved by the Hopi Indian prophecy, featured in Margaret Wheatley’s more recent work. A brief paraphrase:

There is a raging river and most of us are scared and desperately clinging to the banks. But there is no hope at the shore as the banks are being dashed away by the river. Those who are brave enough will launch together into the mainstream. We will be frightened but trusting that the river (life) will carry us because it knows its way.

Photo by kazuend on Unsplash

Just as a forest knows how to be a forest and our bodies know how to grow and maintain themselves, perhaps the hope for us as humans is in communing and community—in supporting each other to pursue what is right and good together, despite double binds, despite threats, intimidation and other social pressures that take away our dignity and freedom.

The Power of Flow in Community - Nicola's thoughts

Finding flow has never been easy for me. At times, it’s felt elusive, and I’ve struggled to catch it. But over time, I’ve learned that flow doesn’t come when you force it. It often emerges when we let go of rigid expectations and allow ourselves to be moved by the energy around us and within us.

Just like the river in the Hopi prophecy, flow in community doesn’t require us to have it all figured out. It’s not about controlling every step or making sure everything is perfect. It’s about trusting the process, connecting with each other, and allowing the community to shape the way forward. When we tune into the energy of the group, we are more likely to find collective flow—a state where the sum of our individual contributions becomes greater than the whole.

Photo by Nicholas Ng on Unsplash

In this fortnight's Possibility in Practice sessions, we will explore flow and emergence not just as an individual experience, but as something that we can nurture together. We sense what the community is ready for, what it’s asking for, and how we can move in harmony with the wider living system. By tapping into our collective wisdom and being open to the unexpected, we create the conditions for something new and meaningful to emerge. This is the essence of flow in community—an unfolding process where we support each other, and in doing so, we allow something greater to guide us.

That’s our hope for the Possibility in Practice community.

Join Us for Our Next Session on FLOW and EMERGENCE

We’d love for you to join us as we dive deeper into these themes. We’re opening the space for reflection, conversation, and connection, where we can explore what flow looks like for us as individuals and as a collective.

This isn’t just about the work we do—this is about the way we show up for each other in the world and how we contribute to creating something meaningful together.

We hope you can join us.

Thursday, 3 April 2025
9:00 AM – 10:30 AM AWST
Zoom (link provided upon booking)
Free to join – just bring yourself

Register here:
https://events.humanitix.com/possibility-in-practice-day

OR

Tuesday, 8 April 2025
6:30 PM – 8:00 PM AWST
Zoom (link provided upon booking)
Free to join – just bring yourself

https://events.humanitix.com/possibility-in-practice-eve

Warm Data Lab - South Perth, Western Australia

A Moment of Noticing

A few days ago, I found myself in a conversation that shifted something inside me. It wasn’t about fixing, debating, or strategising. It was just a moment of noticing—sitting with a question, letting different experiences touch and shape each other. By the end, I didn’t have answers, but I had something just as important: a fresh way of seeing.

It happened after a morning walk on Shoalwater Beach with a friend. We bumped into a few of her friends, and as we stood talking in the sunshine, I shared a little about Vital Village Groups—a growing initiative to help communities become more connected and resilient. These small, local groups offer a way for people to build relationships of mutual support in ways that feel natural and sustainable.

One of the women responded with a story that resonated deeply. In Melbourne, a large organisation had realised how disconnected its employees had become since Covid. Wanting to rebuild social bonds, they introduced a simple yet powerful practice called Take a Break.

Each week, four randomly selected employees meet for half an hour, guided by three conversation prompts. They take a photo for a shared album, and over time, this small ritual is helping strengthen relationships and grow friendships in the workplace.

As we stood there reflecting, another woman shared how parents at her children’s school once gathered naturally at pickup and drop-off times, forming a strong web of support and friendship. But after the pandemic, even when restrictions lifted, that organic practice never returned. Policies had shifted, habits had changed, and a small but important piece of the social glue was lost.

Likewise, with so many workplaces now offering remote or hybrid options, casual interactions with colleagues have faded. The everyday moments that once built relationships—spontaneous chats by the coffee machine, a quick hello in the hallway—have quietly fallen away.

Something in me shifted as I listened. These stories of disconnection and reconnection weren’t separate from Vital Village Groups—they were deeply intertwined. They reinforced something we’ve been exploring: meaningful relationships start within the communities we already belong to.

Workplaces, schools, neighbourhoods, hobby groups—these are our natural spaces of connection. But due to Covid and other systemic changes, many of these social fabrics have frayed or weakened.

And that’s exactly why we’re hosting Vital Village Voices—a space to start these conversations, to notice what has been lost, and to imagine how we can rebuild connection in ways that feel real and sustainable.

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When the World Feels Overwhelming…

Right now, we’re facing enormous challenges—climate disasters, housing stress, cost-of-living pressures, mental health struggles, rising disconnection.

When things feel overwhelming, the temptation is to search for the perfect solution, the expert answer, the one big fix.

But what if the way forward isn’t about fixing?

What if it’s about seeing, listening, and learning together?

An Invitation to Think Together

Over the next few months, we’re hosting Vital Village Voices—a series of community gatherings exploring how we can support each other in everyday life and tough times.

These aren’t your usual meetings.
No expert presentations. No panels. No problem-solving agendas.

Instead, they are inspired by Warm Data Labs, a unique conversational process developed by Nora Bateson. These sessions invite us into a different way of thinking together—one that embraces multiple perspectives instead of narrowing down to a single solution.

💬 What is a Warm Data Lab?

A Warm Data Lab is like the best after-dinner conversation you’ve ever had—rich, surprising, and full of insight.

Unlike structured meetings that focus on problem-solving or debate, Warm Data Labs expand perception. Instead of reducing issues to a single answer, they invite multiple perspectives to coexist—helping us see patterns, relationships, and new possibilities we wouldn’t have noticed otherwise.

You’ll move between small, informal group conversations, each exploring a central theme from different angles. Discussions will shift between aspects of life—family, community, health, economy, environment—because real-life challenges are never just one thing.

Instead of asking, “What should we do?”, Warm Data Labs ask, “What else can we see?”

🌱 Why does this matter?

The strength of our community depends on the quality of our communing.

How we show up with one another—how we listen, how we make space for different experiences—matters. It changes how we respond to challenges.

🌿 These spaces are for:

• Stories, laughter, and fresh insights—because resilience is built through relationships.

• Deep listening & connection—because understanding grows when we explore different viewpoints together.

• Moving beyond roles & titles—meeting as people, not just professionals or decision-makers.

Why Now?

Climate crises like bushfires and heatwaves are becoming more frequent. So are social crises—rising living costs, housing insecurity, mental health struggles.

We can’t rely solely on governments or market forces to take care of us.

A truly strong community doesn’t just have a seat at the table. It becomes the table.

If we want communities that are resilient—not just to bushfires or floods, but to all of life’s challenges—we need to start by creating the conditions for connection.

And that starts with conversation.

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📍 In-person sessions (Wanneroo area)
🌱 Saturday 26 April — 1:00 PM to 3:30 PM
🌱 Saturday 10 May — 1:00 PM to 3:30 PM
🌱 Saturday 24 May — 1:00 PM to 3:30 PM

💻 Online sessions (via Zoom)
🧑‍💻 Friday 2 May — 11:30 AM to 1:30 PM
🧑‍💻 Friday 16 May — 11:30 AM to 1:30 PM
🧑‍💻 Friday 30 May — 11:30 AM to 1:30 PM

✨ Sign up here: https://events.humanitix.com/vital-village-voices-wanneroo

This isn’t about quick fixes—it’s about thinking, sharing, and learning together in a kind and welcoming space.

Let’s gather. Let’s talk. Let’s begin.

For years, I’ve been swimming at my local beach, occasionally managing a kilometre, usually much less. Recently, I stumbled across a local swim group, the Warnbro Sound Warriors, and decided to join them for a session. To my surprise, I swam 1.3km with ease—something that would have felt much harder alone.

There’s something about moving alongside others, or even behind them, that makes challenges feel more possible. A 2012 study on ‘Social Support and the Perception of Geographical Slant’ found that people standing at the base of a steep hill perceived it as less steep when they were with a friend. The closer their relationship, the easier the climb appeared.

The short story? Things feel easier when we’re with others. Challenges seem more possible, distances feel shorter, and resilience grows in community.

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Why Connected Communities Matter

Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash

Enter 1 (VVGs)—a simple but powerful initiative we are developing in Perth’s northern corridor to grow more resilient, connected communities.

As climate change accelerates, disasters like bushfires and heatwaves are becoming more frequent. Many emergency professionals we’ve spoken with share the same concerns:

• People don’t realise they live in at-risk areas.

• People lack strong community support networks to rely on when crises hit.

• People assume government and emergency services will take care of them.

The reality is that emergency services are stretched beyond capacity. When a disaster strikes, the communities that bounce back fastest aren’t necessarily the ones with the best infrastructure—but the ones with the strongest social ties.

In her article on How to Save a Community, Leah Lamb describes how community connections became lifelines during California wildfires. Neighbours who previously barely knew each other suddenly coordinated evacuation plans, shared critical updates, and supported one another practically and emotionally. She writes, “There are so many ways we can be part of and play a role in these moments.”

And yet, many people today feel too busy, too private, or too hesitant to reach out to their neighbours. Some feel they have nothing in common, some prefer to keep to themselves, and others are already overwhelmed with work and family responsibilities.

So how do we grow resilience in communities where people are disconnected, stretched, and unsure how to start?

A Different Approach: Following the Energy

At Befriend2, we believe in following the energy—starting where connection already exists and growing from there. Instead of trying to convince people to sign up for something new, we support them to build on what they’re already doing and care about.

This isn’t about setting up another ‘volunteer group.’ It’s about helping people tap into their natural gifts and strengths—the things they already love doing—and encouraging them to share those gifts in ways that feel good and sustainable.

What Does a Vital Village Group Look Like?

Years ago, I attended a Millionth Circle seeding workshop inspired by Jean Shinoda Bolen’s book. Within half a day, five or six new women’s groups were launched in our rural community—many of them among existing circles of friends and acquaintances.

The workshop provided simple guidelines and adaptable suggestions, with room to shape the model to suit each group. The group I joined lasted ten years, and I stayed involved for seven of them, gaining invaluable support through some of life’s most difficult seasons.

Like these women’s groups, Vital Village Groups aren’t one-size-fits-all. They are:

• Flexible and adaptable—meeting at a frequency and format that works for each group.

• Nested inside existing communities—daycare centres, sports clubs, neighbourhoods, schools, friend groups, workplaces and more.

• Grounded in shared gifts—helping people discover and share what they love doing.

• A safe, welcoming space—where people show up as they are, without pressure to contribute in a certain way.

Vital Village Groups help people transform existing connections into lasting support.

Some groups may focus on emergency preparedness, while others may centre around mutual care and connection, offering support through life's everyday ups and downs. Each group will be different, shaped by the people involved.

How We Can Support You

Through one-on-one support, seeding workshops and an optional community of practice, we’d love to help you:

• Start a Vital Village Group in a setting that feels natural and familiar.

• Learn simple group structures and flexible guidelines to help your group thrive.

• Explore what community resilience means and how to strengthen it in everyday life.

Maybe you already belong to a mothers’ group, a faith group, a club, or a workplace team. Perhaps you’d like to bring together neighbours on your street. Whatever the context, we’d love to help you grow a stronger, more connected community—in a way that works for you.

A Vital Village Group isn’t another responsibility on your plate—it’s a support system. A place to belong, to connect, and to be part of something bigger.

Because, as I discovered swimming alongside others—everything feels more possible when we’re in it together.

Would you like to start a conversation about setting up a Vital Village Group in your community?

📩 Get in touch with me or Iain to explore possibilities:

🔹 Iain Shields – Wanneroo Neighbourhood Connector | 📧 iain@befriend.org.au | 📞 0400 548 430 - to start an in-person Vital Village Group in your local community.
🔹 Nicola-Jane le Breton – Thinking Partner | 📧 nicola@befriend.org.au | 📞 0421 633 124 - to join an online Community of Practice for those starting Vital Village groups.

Let’s grow something meaningful together. 🌱

Perhaps waterfalls are a kind of mirror for our lives. For those moments when the familiar terrain suddenly drops away—when change sweeps through, when something old is worn down, when we find ourselves moving toward something deeper.

Gravity pulls the water toward the ocean—just as life pulls us toward something vast, inevitable, and whole. And yet, waterfalls do not resist the fall. They leap. They surrender. They carve new paths through stone.

What if we, too, could fall like that? With grace, with beauty, with the knowing that this, too, is part of the journey?

Some falls are slow, like a gentle stream spilling over polished stones. Others are sudden—like the earth dropping away beneath us. A loss, a new beginning, a calling that won’t be ignored. But in the falling, there is movement. And in the movement, there is life.

So today, if you find yourself at the edge of change—standing at the precipice of something unknown—may you remember the waterfall. May you trust the current that carries you forward. And may you know that even in the freefall, there is wisdom, beauty, and belonging.

Photo by Donovan Simpkin on Unsplash

Sometimes life pulls us into challenges that feel insurmountable. You might think, How could I, one small person, possibly make a difference in the face of such a vast and complex problem? Yet here you are, standing on the threshold of the unknown, unsure if you have the right tools to navigate what lies ahead.

For me, that threshold is the Resilient Together project, a two-year initiative to strengthen community networks in Wanneroo so people will be better prepared to respond to disasters, like bushfires and heatwaves. Six months in, I still feel ill-equipped to make a meaningful difference. My colleagues remind me we weren’t chosen for our expertise in bushfire preparation and recovery but for our understanding of how to nurture connections and grow community resilience.

Even so, the immensity of this task often leaves me feeling small, like a bird in a storm. It’s in moments like these that I turn to traditional tales, distilled over centuries into timeless maps of human experience. Stories can guide us through fear and uncertainty, offering insights into how we might navigate challenges with humility, courage, and creativity.

One story that has stayed with me is an ancient Jataka tale from India, which I’ve adapted into an Australian version I tell: The Brave Little Parrot.

The Story of the Brave Little Parrot

A lightning strike ignites a bushfire, sending flames racing through the forest. The animals flee, but one small parrot cannot bear to abandon her home and friends to destruction. She flies to the river, dips her wings in the water, and carries tiny drops back to the fire. Over and over, she repeats this futile act.

From high above, an eagle watches. “What a foolish little bird,” he scoffs. “Does she really think she can put out the fire with just a few drops of water?”

But the parrot persists, undeterred by the enormity of the task. Inspired by her courage, the other animals begin to help: the wombat digs burrows for shelter, the kangaroo carries water in her pouch, and the echidna digs furrows to slow the fire’s spread.

Moved by the parrot’s bravery, the eagle finally weeps tears of compassion, which rain down and extinguish the flames.

Image credit: Aleksandar Popovski, Unsplash

Lessons for Wanneroo

As I sit with this story, what strikes me most is the parrot’s decision to act, even in the face of impossible odds. She doesn’t know if her efforts will make a difference, but she does what she can, because turning away is not an option.

This feels deeply relevant to the work we’re doing in Wanneroo. Many community members believe bushfires won’t affect their homes, or assume that emergency services will take care of them if disaster strikes. But emergency professionals have told us otherwise: their resources are stretched too thin to reach everyone. When a crisis hits, it’s our connections—our neighbours, our networks—that determine how well we respond and recover.

The LA wildfires of January 2025 serve as a stark reminder of this reality. Homes in unexpected places were destroyed, and residents who thought they were safe found themselves unprepared. As climate change accelerates, these events will become more frequent and severe. The question is not whether we’ll face such challenges, but how we’ll meet them.

How Communities Can Act

For me, the parrot’s story shows that resilience isn’t about having all the answers—it’s about taking the first step, no matter how small. It’s about recognizing that every contribution matters, especially when it’s part of a collective effort.

In Wanneroo, resilience might start with something as simple as getting to know your neighbours. Maybe your street already has a WhatsApp group where you can check in during emergencies. Or maybe this is the moment to start one. Perhaps you can organize a conversation with your neighbours about who might need extra help during a heatwave or bushfire season.

The shape of resilience will look different in every neighbourhood, but at its heart is the same truth: we’re stronger together.

The Power of Stories

As a Community Story Weaver, I’ve witnessed how sharing stories can transform a room. Stories connect us, help us make sense of the world, and illuminate paths forward when we feel uncertain. In our workshops, we draw on storytelling, gift discovery, and living systems thinking to help community members uncover their unique strengths and weave them into the fabric of their neighbourhoods.

One participant in a recent workshop for community volunteers shared how hearing a traditional tale helped her rediscover her purpose when she was on the verge of giving up. A particular moment in the story inspired her to approach her community work with greater vulnerability and authenticity, renewing her energy and reminding her of the "why" behind her efforts.

Often, hearing another’s story allows us to see our own lives more clearly. It gives us courage, helps us find meaning, and reveals possibilities we might not have noticed before. When shared within a community, stories have the power to not only heal individuals but also spark collective action.

An Invitation to Join Us

Over the next 18 months, Resilient Together Wanneroo will bring community members together to explore what resilience means for their neighbourhoods. This isn’t about experts handing out instructions; it’s about creating spaces for shared stories, ideas, and actions to emerge.

We invite you to:

• Join a workshop: Learn how storytelling and connection can transform your community.

• Reach out to your neighbours: Start a conversation or create a simple system to stay in touch.

• Share your story: What inspires you? What gifts do you have to offer?

Like the parrot, we may feel small in the face of these challenges. But as the story shows, small acts of courage and connection can lead to miracles. Together, we can create a resilient Wanneroo—one drop of water, one story, one neighbour at a time.

“The greatness of a community is most accurately measured by the compassionate actions of its members.” – Coretta Scott King

Let’s take the first step together.

This space is an evolving reflection of my work as a Community Story Weaver and Thinking Partner with Befriend Inc in Perth, Western Australia. Through storytelling, deep listening, and gift discovery, I explore how communities can grow stronger, more connected, and more resilient—not just in times of crisis but in the everyday moments where belonging and meaning take root.

For much of my life, I have been drawn to stories and the wisdom they carry. Traditional tales, personal narratives, and deep listening practices have all shaped how I see the world—not as fixed and predetermined, but as something we are constantly weaving together through the way we listen, connect, and share. I believe that when we listen deeply—to each other, to the natural world, to our own gifts—new possibilities emerge.

Why This Blog?

I created The Listening Weave as a space to share:
🌀 Traditional stories and reflections on how they speak to our troubled times.
🌱 Insights from my work in community resilience, including my involvement with Resilient Together Wanneroo, a project focused on strengthening social connections so that communities are more prepared for bushfires, heatwaves, and other challenges.
💡 Explorations in transcontextual listening—bringing together voices from different backgrounds to create new ways of understanding and responding to complex challenges.
🎁 The power of gift discovery—helping people recognize what they naturally bring to the world and find meaningful ways to share it.

One of the biggest things I’ve been noticing in my work is how disconnected and disillusioned people feel—how hard it is to gather the energy to step forward and offer what we love, even when we sense that others might need it. Part of my hope with The Listening Weave is to help create spaces where people feel truly seen, where their gifts are valued, and where they can find encouragement to step into community in ways that feel right for them—without pressure, without expectation, just with possibility.

What’s Coming Up?

Over the next few months, I’ll be sharing:
🌿 Stories and reflections on community connection, resilience, and belonging
🔥 Insights from my work with Resilient Together Wanneroo and the Vital Village initiative.
📚 Reviews and resources on storytelling, resilience, and deep listening
✨ Opportunities for transcontextual conversations—exploring how different perspectives can come together to spark new ways of thinking and acting.

If this resonates with you, I’d love for you to subscribe and join the conversation. I also invite you to comment, reflect, and share your own stories and experiences—because The Listening Weave is not just about what I write, but about what we can co-create together.

Thank you for being here. I look forward to weaving this space with you.

See you in the weave,
Nicola

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