I have concerns about community, about shibboleths, about only wanting to be around "people like us."
But there is also something visceral, something that looks at a picture, reads a blog post, hears a conversation during coffee hour, and breathes in, "This is my tribe."
It was a picture of a friend's mom that reminded me of this. Joy on her face, love on her shirt, a friend at her side, clutching a banner of her belief ... deeply and reverentially, I inhaled, held the breath, and thought, "I have never met her, but I know her. For we are related. She is my tribe."
If she and I were to speak, we would already be speaking the same language. We might argue about the accent, but we could understand each other, even if we did not agree.
How important is that! In this world, where we not only don't agree, but often times, we can't even understand each other. We speak the same language, we think, yet my words go whizzing past his right ear, as his fall into ashes under my left ear. "I ... what? ... you mean? "
The thought is unfinished. We look at each other blankly.
Blink. Blink.
She reaches out to me, from the picture. We hum Spirit of Life together, we exchange stories. Perhaps, like my parents' friends, she argues with me, heatedly, but yet with love. "But you don't understand!" she glares. "No, YOU don't understand!" I whine.
The chasm between us seems large, but then she looks over her shoulder; I look over mine. The chasm is here, on our beautiful island. We are separated from the rest of the world by hundreds of ocean miles.
The chasm seems small, suddenly. We reach out, at the same time. Our hands touch, and we follow them with our feet, wading out to the cool middle.
"Kind of cold for this time of year," she says.
"Eh, I think it's a bit warm."
We smile. We are in the same water. No matter what we call it. The water runs over the rocks, past our ankles, on to a future we can't yet know.
Our future.
Our tribe.
But there is also something visceral, something that looks at a picture, reads a blog post, hears a conversation during coffee hour, and breathes in, "This is my tribe."
It was a picture of a friend's mom that reminded me of this. Joy on her face, love on her shirt, a friend at her side, clutching a banner of her belief ... deeply and reverentially, I inhaled, held the breath, and thought, "I have never met her, but I know her. For we are related. She is my tribe."
If she and I were to speak, we would already be speaking the same language. We might argue about the accent, but we could understand each other, even if we did not agree.
How important is that! In this world, where we not only don't agree, but often times, we can't even understand each other. We speak the same language, we think, yet my words go whizzing past his right ear, as his fall into ashes under my left ear. "I ... what? ... you mean? "
The thought is unfinished. We look at each other blankly.
Blink. Blink.
She reaches out to me, from the picture. We hum Spirit of Life together, we exchange stories. Perhaps, like my parents' friends, she argues with me, heatedly, but yet with love. "But you don't understand!" she glares. "No, YOU don't understand!" I whine.
The chasm between us seems large, but then she looks over her shoulder; I look over mine. The chasm is here, on our beautiful island. We are separated from the rest of the world by hundreds of ocean miles.
The chasm seems small, suddenly. We reach out, at the same time. Our hands touch, and we follow them with our feet, wading out to the cool middle.
"Kind of cold for this time of year," she says.
"Eh, I think it's a bit warm."
We smile. We are in the same water. No matter what we call it. The water runs over the rocks, past our ankles, on to a future we can't yet know.
Our future.
Our tribe.
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