I listen to Jonsi playing piano in the background. He’s there singing for anyone who is willing to listen. I’m chatting with a friend like decent media abiding citizens. She’s there. I think about the folks I met half way around the whole this past summer; young, energetic, and Chinese and there.
In a world so easily attainable, we grasp for connectivity as if we never had it. Send one more text and you will feel better. Right? Email one more idea and put it on the calendar. Grab one more beer and you’ll be satisfied. I remember playing four-square in elementary school. Chalk on the sidewalk. Those were the days. Simple, goal-oriented interactions. Why don’t I Facebook all of the third-graders I shared recess with? Well, that’d ruin it.
It saddens my heart that when I’m in certain circles, people flinch when I say community. The phrase apparently has been overused and over-attempted. It’s like a misunderstood curse word. Yet under-done. They’re missing it. The lab partner, the co-worker, the sister-in-law. The cab driver, the pastor, the professor.
Jonsi’s never going to play music in my living room. He’s never going to cry on my shoulder in the rain. The boys and girls from third-grade are scattered about, filling jobs, to pay the bills, to repeat the renewed cycle yet again. Those men and women from back then don’t yearn to know who I am. They aren’t here to comprehend Community.
But you are.
I want us all here, wrapped up in a creative bubble that doesn’t burst until she’s ready. It’s a thousand kisses passed out to the masses and retreated back in. The reality is, we’re all in the same bubble. You are running off to save lives, to sink in the syringe. You are writing the songs, pouring the drinks, pulling the shots. You are in my living room sharing your stories. We all want to listen.