They sat at a round table, in blue chairs that held countless butts before theirs. Each of their butts was connected to a body, connected to a mind, connected to a soul. They spoke, in turn, popcorning, to share a little piece of that soul. Sometimes they spoke in flowing metaphor, painting pictures with their words. Sometimes they spoke with graceless, stumbling honesty. Sometimes they spoke with shy glances or with eye contact held for longer than they were used to. Sometimes they spoke with unforgiving laughter. And with an authentic curiosity, they listened, hungry to know the soul across from them.
And as they listened, threads fine as silk arched from those souls, through the air, weaving their way ‘round the table.
Each morning they did this. A ritual, it seemed. It fed them. Around that table,
And then they stopped. Circumstances left them scattered, their butts, bodies, minds, and souls far away from those blue chairs each morning. They sat in different chairs, miles or states or countries apart. And the ritual was broken.
What do we do when the threads grow taut with distance? How do we hold ourselves when proximity no longer allows us to hold each other? How do we feed ourselves when an important ritual no longer greets us each morning? How do we go back to sitting our butts in different chairs every morning, when something about sitting in those blue chairs felt so right?
No, really. I’m asking. How?