Early morning, pouring rain.
Coffee, shower.
Karaoke machine.
Book of quotes; bag of cookies.
I ask Hannah if there is anything she needs.
“Organic half & half please.”
During a slight lessening of the rain, I rush into the store and get the last carton.
I arrive a bit late and give Hannah a soggy hug.
People slowly filter in as I put the dairy on ice.
Hannah gives me spoon duty, with unspecific requirements.
I meet new people, all wondering how they belong.
I estimate the mean & standard deviation of the ages of muses.
I am an outlier. More than three standard deviations from the mean.
More coffee and a croissant.
I look at the books on the shelves.
Always more comfortable with books than with people.
I am talking with Hannah’s brother.
Hannah asks if I completed spoon detail, schoolteacher style.
In the kitchen, Hannah gives me a cup to hold the spoons.
I grab all the spoons, vexed by silverware.
There are pictures on the bed we are to use for the soul collage.
I grab three of them and we head upstairs for instruction.
On request, Hannah’s brother and I bring two chairs along.
There is a circle of ten seated on cushions on the floor.
Nate and I take the chairs (smoke’em if you got’em).
I wonder why I chose the chair.
Is it simply comfort? A power position?
Because it lets me be with the group but also above the fray?
We go around the circle, sharing our reasons for being there.
And the states of our beings.
It is striking that so many talk about wanting to change their lives.
And that there may be casualties in going through with those changes.
Mostly the talk is positive with an undercurrent of woundedness.
They are here because they see it as a safe space.
I am last to speak. About the new worlds Hannah has opened for me.
It is all true but is less revealing than what others shared.
I could have spoken to my own need for change.
Better to share too little than too much. Old habits.
We get instructions and head off to gather materials.
In the bedroom is a wall of kids’ pictures.
A baby picture of me wearing a straw hat is front and slightly left of center.
Friends and family unadulterated.
It could be a poster of lost children.
I am trying to reconcile the pictures I collected (a lone horseman, angry BLM marchers, kids holding a “united” sign). These represent American myths. There is an expectation that I would ask myself the question:
What do these pictures want from me?
My instincts took me to the social, the political, rather than the personal
The larger question is what does my rage at the abuse of power say about my own journey? My own failures. My own wants?
Trying to process this in just a few minutes seems too daunting.
I am suddenly very tired.
Lack of sleep, the rain, the task, and the immersive extroversion.
I can do without a third cup of coffee.
I long for these connections and yet I resist.
It feels good to be in the presence of so many kind people.
And yet I am distant.
I am organic half and half.
I say my goodbyes.
Hannah is disappointed but gracious.
On the ride home I reflect on the experience.
Trying not to judge myself for my unease.
Is it ok to be in a group and not be of it?
Is it ok not to perform? To not focus on making an impact?
Is it ok to just be there and take in the view?
The equivocal musings of an old lion.
