My daily walk routinely takes me past a house that always draws my attention because of the big, elderly dogs in the yard who run the length of the fence barking their displeasure, which is slowly changing to a quieter greeting. Kevin, my canine companion, isn’t a fan, but I always speak to them, assure them that they’re properly fierce, and ask if we can be friends. Recently, my steps were arrested for a very different reason, and I stood teary for several moments at the sight.

In the low branches of a ginormous tree, haphazard boards had been nailed around the massive trunk to craft a simple treehouse. What struck me was the writing on the boards, clearly created by a child and with the expected misspellings and a stray miscellaneous letter: first “Henry’s,” presumably the name of the treehouse’s occupant, then “Sheltor(T) Sakers.” I expect the words were written by a boy no more than age five or six, whom I had seen at times playing in the yard.

And the scene wrecked me.

So many things immediately flooded my mind behind the tears. Evident was that a little kid, apparently named Henry, had clearly been exposed to the idea of safety, of shelter. Some loving adult had spent time listening to the pleas for a treehouse, getting the supplies, and probably allowing the child to “help” affix the boards to the tree. Then Henry had decided the new space  wasn’t just for him, but that he would open it to others – to those who were shelter seekers.

My heart brimmed with all the implications. Oh, for the love of God, we need more shelters in this world! We need more adults who understand the importance of shelter, whether just for fun or of necessity, more kids who have internalized that message, and more people who are willing to create sheltering spaces and to invite others to share them.

I’ve thought a lot about being a seeker of shelter, and also a person who has been graced with finding it. Initially, my former and current homes came to mind. First was the “sanctuary” house where I moved when my marriage was ending. It was a glorious space near my family home, which was convenient as I returned to prepare holiday meals and keep grandchildren in the house my husband and I had lived in for almost thirty years, a helpful practice as we all learned to navigate those difficult days. The vaulted ceilings, porches, and seclusion of my sanctuary space provided exactly the sheltering solace I needed during a huge and painful transition.

Eventually, the elderly homeowner passed away, and his adult children sold the property to a developer. Although not unexpected, I was distraught at the idea of leaving my sanctuary space. The search for a new home was rough as I looked for an affordable, reasonably located, and attractive space. The additional complicating requirement was nearly impossible: a rentable home that would allow me to keep my hot tub and swimspa, which are crucial to my well-being, but were deal-breakers for the two dozen places I considered. I was about to give up and settle for a “nice” house, but one I didn’t really want mostly because it was across town from where I wanted to be. As a last final effort, I looked again online, and a newly listed, promising home was available in my chosen neighborhood. I drove by on my way to Bethesda and fell in love with everything about the house. The owner was there finishing some renovations, and he turned out to be a triathlete who was very familiar with a swimspa because he trained in one. He was fine with my hope to install mine, along with my hot tub, on the back patio, a perfect spot. (He’s also turned out to be a terrific landlord.)

I grieved to leave my sanctuary space, but I discovered when I got settled here that as wonderful as my first shelter was, every time I entered it I was reminded of the pain that took me there. My current home represents “Forward!” – a settling into a new life that brings me great joy. Daily, I’m delighted by my home’s simplicity, location, huge back yard, and beautiful private patio that accommodates my healing water features.

Going deeper, my thoughts soon turned to the equally important kind of shelter found in supportive, nurturing people. Dozens of faces scrolled across my internal screen – a roll call of dear ones, both living and celestial, who have circled me in loving care, comfort, and companionship. Some have been family members, especially my dear brothers and Mama Bess, the woman who both found shelter in our family home and provided it to us after my mother died. I thought of many friends who have walked different parts of the journey with me, and of a handful who have sheltered me almost all of my life.

“Friend,” though, doesn’t fully capture some of our most meaningful relationships. That word’s meaning is diluted because it’s used so freely to describe a continuum of connections, many of them casual or fleeting. Even as a writer, I’ve never been able to craft (or have even read) an adequate description of a deep, soul-sheltering “friend,” until I recently was introduced to a non-English word: rafiki (pronounced “rah FEE key”). The language is Swahili, and I heard it from the African guide who led my trek up Kilimanjaro. In a recent text conversation about friendship, he introduced me to the concept of rafiki, which describes the deepest level of human connection in his native language.

Rafiki means a true companion, an ally, a loyal comrade, the essence of a vital human connection. It has deep historical use in African culture, and more recently, the term has sometimes described the wise baboon who befriends the main characters in Disney’s The Lion King. I love that the concept of rafiki transcends the typical categories of relationship. It doesn’t automatically connote a romantic, sexual, or marital coupling, nor a familial relationship, although it’s possible (ideal) that those types of partnerships have a rafiki connection. The word targets the power and importance of a human-to-human, soul-to-soul bond, which can be present in many realms, from soldiers in combat to those whom English lamely labels as “friends.”

Today I am blessed to have several rafiki people in my life, dear ones who are with me both in the center of life’s storms and in a celebration of life’s joys. When you, too, are seeking shelter – whether physical, emotional, or spiritual – I hope you find it. Better yet, I hope you find a Henry, a rafiki companion. And, best, I hope that you are a sheltering rafiki for others.

Marnie C. Ferree, LMFT, CSAT
Bethesda Workshops’ Founder