bridges
A maker needs two things says Rollo May; “solitude and solidarity”. The former I understand intimately. The latter still feels like a mystery.
I grew up alone. The only child of evangelical ministers. We moved around a lot, and even though I’ve lived in the same city for over twenty-years, the feeling of being the new kid has never left me. Maybe that’s why I’m still so comfortable in places rife with liminality. Between take off and landing, my breathing happens freely. The space between check-in and baggage claim feels like home to me. I gave up on faith and theism, but the thin places between Saturday night and Sunday morning are how I’d define my beliefs.
I learned to make companions out of ideas and objects. Out of office supplies and action figures. Out of art and the imaginary. Out of books, and music, and poetry. I built worlds in which to be welcomed. When I didn’t feel seen or noticed I made things that I could see myself reflected in. I made meaning when no one was looking.
I learned about solitude simply. I welcomed it’s advantages. It sharpens attention. It’s where the work becomes honest. It’s where the quiet speaks with patience and density. With hard truths and tenderness. It’s where the maker makes space to listen.
And yet, solidarity is just as essential, it keeps the isolation from calcifying into something closed off and restrictive. But for me it’s been a much more difficult lesson.
John O’Donohue says that “Belonging can never be a fixed thing.” It is never stationary or static. “It is always quietly changing.” Transforming itself and all it touches, because “At its core, belonging is growth” and “When belonging is alive, it always brings new transitions.”
Solidarity is a courage found in fragility. It’s what happens when we show the soft belly of our private hopes to the public. When we discover that the lonely language scrawled across our hearts is a lingua franca, a common tongue known and spoken by others. When we see that the tempest of our interiority is part of our shared human weather.
It’s where the work transforms into generosity. A gift given freely. Where every arrangement of fragments and sentences becomes an offering. An extending. A reaching. An asking; this is what touches me, does it touch you too?
It’s where we open ourselves to the world and find a way to have a love affair with it. It’s the moment we realize that we born to build bridges...
May what you made in solitude find recognition.
May what kept you company become a haven for others.
May your quiet making become a place of sharing.
In case no one’s told you today, I love you with all my everything.
**special thanks to The Sea in Me for inspiring this writing.
Your connection is strong, Duane. Thank you for being here and sharing all of this.
Well said. Being in the second half of life, as they say, I find myself leaning on music, books, and making to fill gaps in what time I have left. We live in tricky times with social media replacing eye-contact conversations. Next-day delivery replaces interacting with store employees. (Excusing me one sec. “Hey kid, get off my lawn!”) Sorry. I seem to have crashed my own pity party.
The second half of your essay, on solidarity, is the whole reason I post anything - to feel like I’m a part of something larger. And to top that feeling of belonging, people actually take time to look at my efforts and often, provide some feedback. The generosity you mention is super important so social media doesn’t just feel like a lame warm shower. I love how I see a nice mix of simple “nice work” and honest feedback.
Thanks for the brain food.