Being in a group is hard. Not always sure what I can offer. What my place is.
I flourish in intimate conversations with strangers,
yet struggle to show up within a group.
But sometimes what begins as a group becomes a community.
Of its own volition. With its own gradual speed.
Sometimes thirty people who have travelled far,
lived and loved in other languages,
made homes out of different places
give enough self to become beloved to one another.
Living in community feels like the body
Whirling on a dancefloor with thirty others.
Collective unravelling manifests as thirty heads.
Bowed in quiet worship over sixty feet.
Honoring relentless vulnerability, fervent gratitude and perennial hope.
And sixty hands, palms outstretched across a nation.
Lifting up. And offering embrace.
This is my journey one second a day: