It needs a place to be told.
Such a room spills over with life-giving sustenance.
Friends smile a greeting that my eyes return.
Time slows. Hearts open.
I see a nod. I hear a question, a prompt to go on.
With a mixture of surprise and relief, I do just that.
(surprise at being asked,
relief at being heard;
surprise that another wants to know,
relief that I’ve not said too much;
surprise that the strangeness can be unraveled;
relief that comes with saying it out loud)
I re-tell a sliver of my day that, up to this moment, made little sense.
Re-live the confusion.
Re-enact the mistake.
Re-feel the sadness.
Re-enter my own story, my friends’ stories.
And understanding emerges.
Palpable blessing, this story-telling, this story-hearing.
Yet somehow, I’ve wandered away from the road that takes me to that place.
I’ve forgotten the way.
And I can’t hear their voices.
I am missing their stories, and they mine.
But I am hoping to return to the place. To tell my story. To hear theirs.