After five transformative and healing years, Sage is closing.
We are ending services at this location on March 15th, 2016.
Over the years, members our original core collective have moved on to go back to school, start families, and focus on other creative endeavors.
What began as a four-person collective is now a one-person-led organization.
We are therefore closing our doors to allow a necessary reconfiguration, revisioning, and renewal.
We began with the seed of a vision and the soil of our circumstances. We planted ourselves, rooted ourselves to this work, and we grew. We flowered. We dropped seeds.
As our work in this form comes to a close, we celebrate the seeds we have shed and are eager to watch them take root, grow, and bloom.
We want to thank each of you for your support over these past 5 years.
Thank you for trusting us with your healthcare, your healing processes, your complexities, your pain, and your joys.
Thank you for being mirrors for us and thank you for being our best teachers.
We thank our generous Community Advisory Council, with whose help we have been able to navigate part of our process, from beginning to end.
We thank Jessica Palmert, our Participatory Evaluation Research Coordinator and friend.
We thank everyone who volunteered here and helped to make the space sing.
We thank everyone who held workshops, retreats, and events here, filling our space with visionary and liberatory power.
We thank our friends and families for all their love, support, and patience over the years.
We thank our ancestors for bringing us to this work and for witnessing and supporting our personal transformations as we did this work.
In facilitating healing processes for/with others, we grew and transformed in ways we could not imagine.
We are forever grateful for the immense beauty we co-created in community.
We close this final newsletter with visionary words from Octavia Butler (above) and Ursula K. Leguin (below).
“Please bring strange things.
Please come bringing new things.
Let very old things come into your hands.
Let what you do not know come into your eyes.
Let desert sand harden your feet.
Let the arch of your feet be the mountains.
Let the paths of your fingertips be your maps
And the ways you go be the lines of your palms.
Let there be deep snow in your inbreathing
And your outbreath be the shining of ice.
May your mouth contain the shapes of strange words.
May you smell food cooking you have not eaten.
May the spring of a foreign river be your navel.
May your soul be at home where there are no houses.
Walk carefully, well-loved one,
Walk mindfully, well-loved one,
Walk fearlessly, well-loved one.
Return with us, return to us,
Be always coming home.”
—Ursula K. Leguin