Gatherings can be hard, but we’re having one anyway.
Logs burning in a metal bonfire ring with blurry trees in the background. Photo by Roya Ann Miller.
Hi. We’re having a bonfire and you’re invited.
When we decided to close our studio last fall, right away we started talking about gatherings. We kept coming back to the idea of a fire — a summer night with the crackle of wood, murmur of conversation, maybe water nearby.
And we acted! We found a perfect date, Heather got us our permit, she printed it up, dropped it off at my place. I put it somewhere very safe.
Then I conveniently forgot all about it.
Truth is, while I believe fiercely that face-to-face, unscripted human connection inspires and nudges us toward our most resplendent and fully-realized selves… I still get nervous about it.
“I’m an introvert,” I moan. It’s haaaard. Human contact is risky and awkward and exhausting. I’ve gotten very used to the little pandemic-induced triangle of carpet between my bed, fridge and computer. I’m good here.
Is that just me? My personal research says no.
This year I ran a workshop for a group of undergrads at U of T about loneliness and belonging and I was blown away by the stories the students shared about social isolation.
One young woman moved to Canada to go to university, and two years in, hadn’t made a single friend. One young man said he only left his dorm room to eat. These voices stayed with me because they are exceptional, but also because they are ordinary, because in some way, they are all of our stories.
I’ve been reading a lot about loneliness lately and everyone seems to agree — we were more socially isolated than ever before Covid hit, but since then it’s only gotten more profound. The ways we were connecting, imperfect though they were, got reshuffled and hugely reduced.
And now, spring 2022, the risk is still here, especially for disabled and immunocompromised folks. Trying to decide when / how / if to connect can be a complicated calculus of risk and need. We’re all at our inner whiteboards, scribbling furiously, coming out with different answers.
The danger is still real. I’m not negating that. But lately I’ve been quietly wondering if I’ve started using the threat of Covid and the idea of introversion to also hide out from the hard work of human connection.
Then I remembered our park permit.
… Sitting on my desk, smiling at me smugly.
So. We’re going to do this. Knowing that Covid is still here, knowing that nothing is perfect, we’re calling a gathering, just for the sake of gathering. To step back in. To see your faces without pixels. Because we miss you, and we miss the humanity that comes from the simple fact of being proximate.
Here are the specs:
Ashbridges Bay, Sunday June 5th, 7-8:30pm.
It’s a big park, our permit is for the fire pit specifically, which is in a grassy area near the parking lot, not on the beach. Here’s the location on a map, look for the red tear-drop!
We hugely regret to say it’s not wheelchair accessible; we felt awful when we realized we’d missed that. We’ll do whatever we can to get folks there. Heather is your point-person if you have any mobility-related questions or need support to make it: heather@fireflycreativewriting.com
There’s lots of parking and bathrooms nearby.
No rain date! Don’t come if it’s pouring.
Masks are very welcome (I’ll probably be wearing one) but not mandatory.
Now I want to hear from you.
Because unscripted human connection makes me nervous, I have a habit of… shall we say over-planning? I’d LOVE to hear what you look for in a community gathering. Activities? An agenda? Gentle rules? Closure or wander off whenever you want?
I want to know your take and your preferences.
I want to plan from there.
What would make you feel as safe and included as possible?
Fill our our little form here.
Even if you can’t come (loving wave to all of you who live far away, don’t feel ready for gatherings, are too busy, or won’t make it for any other reason), you’re still very welcome to fill out the form. You’re part of this too.
Henry David Thoreau, known for his love of solitude, actually had three chairs in his cabin by Walden Pond.
He said that one was for solitude, the second for friendship, the third for society.
I’m looking forward to pulling out that third chair on June 5th, and whether you are there in person or not, thank you for being part of all this.
In it with you,
