The Guest House

My post-COVID search for purposeful community connection

A hopeful morning sun peeks over our backyard treeline as I sip my morning coffee, reflecting on these last few highly eventful years. The grand house we always dreamed of, flanked by tall trees and lush woods, tucked away from a world that threatens us more every day, feels empty most of the time. An empty nest. College has dramatically expanded our daughter’s universe, her whirlwind visits sweep through the house like a loving gust, warm and wistful. Echoes from the days when her world was much smaller. When she wasn’t perpetually preparing to leave.

A recent burst of summer family activity briefly filled our empty rooms and outdoor space with chatter and social energy. Preparations brought an anticipation for some meaningful human connection. And as the last of our sleeping guests awaken and prepare to leave us, I relished their departure. Voices incessantly talking, laughing, demanding to be heard, now blissfully silent. As I mourned the forgotten art of genuine listening and making true connection, I stared out over the lush green treeline, waiting for the next opportunity.

The last few years marked the acceleration of my journey inward, as I recall how the COVID pandemic laid the infrastructure for it all. Closure of external social avenues. Working from home. Addiction to streaming TV. Daily Amazon care packages arriving at the door. A deeper, more intimate relationship with the couch. The endless stream of alarming political news.

As the 2020 election drew nearer, you could literally feel the fabric of society tearing apart and into two camps, both rabid with their own fear and outrage, separate realities defined by heaping consumption of news, devoured like pigs head down in a trough. My local newspaper would arrive each week, the page 3 opinion section plastered with full-throated conservative grievances from one particular neighbor, his ignorance drowning out any joyful local news. My many unpublished rebuttals drove me to personally contact the paper’s editor, provoking a two-day vitriolic email exchange. Drinks by the pool one afternoon led to calling old Navy buddies, with one conversation beginning lightheartedly, then ending in a political screaming match.

Leukemia provided yet another gift. Soon after I got my head around it, I actually did see it as a gift. Treatments exhausted and weakened me (and, for now, saved me). It forced me to live and think more intentionally. But what it didn’t do is bring me closer to people. I learned how to package my personal worries into a tidy little tale of optimism. Even within my own family, it seemed more imperative to put others at ease than to invite them in to fully appreciate what I was going through. As intentional as I felt I’d become, I was unable to ask for and get what I most wanted from these good people. The gift of authentic connection.

Remission would start another hopeful chapter. I began bicycling again, mostly on a nearby eight-mile smoothly paved scenic trail through the natural beauty of southern Rhode Island. The surrounding woods and streams connected by secluded back roads invite me to breathe deeply. Beginning at the Kingston train station and ending by the beaches of Narragansett, the wooden mile markers lead through small communities where motorists drive slowly, smile, and wave you across.

The primary stop on this trail provides an inviting spot to pause and rest, complete with a drinking fountain, public benches, two well-maintained public bathrooms, and a notice board with upcoming local events.

At this corner, the trail crosses the charming center of Wakefield - Main Street.

We’d passed by here many times but never stopped to pay particular notice. One morning, I pulled out my earbuds, got a drink at the fountain and decided to walk around. I spotted several women moving fluidly from inside the front window of a yoga studio. Across the street, two mechanics smiled as they worked on cars on lifts with pneumatic tools. Brickley’s Ice Cream wasn’t yet open, but I recalled it was a center hub of town activity once a summer day got going.

I wandered into Phil’s Diner. A pretty kid, probably my daughter’s age, in full makeup at 7:00am on a Saturday, greeted me warmly. I sat at a counter stool, pulled a credit card from inside my sock and ordered a coffee, unconcerned for my unlocked bicycle outside. I watched a heavily tattooed woman skillfully prepare an omelet on a griddle, the lightly charred smell of hash brown potatoes wafting by made me actively consider eating. A young, bearded man sat two stools down with his daughter. I sipped my coffee, touched by the lovely way he spoke to her as they considered their order.

I noticed a set of stairs at the entrance and decided to continue my exploration upward. At the top of the steps I turned left and onto an open air bridge that crossed over an alley, onto the adjacent building.

Apparently Phil’s had annexed their neighbors rooftop for open-air dining overlooking Main Street. A few patrons sat under feathered trees as a cool morning breeze passed. A bartender wiped the morning dew from beer glasses from behind a stylish bar. A young couple sat at the bar sharing mimosas, tickled to be enjoying this early morning experience.

With improving stamina, my weekend rides on the bike path turned into lengthening runs, and Main Street became a regular staple of my weekends. I would receive bicycle tire air and tools from the friendly mechanics. A coffee house revealed itself down the next block, where people lingered at the counter and read novels or sat outside the storefront window writing on laptops.

A tiny stage with a stool and microphone stand suggested occasional live entertainment. One early evening I took my wife there to find a duo playing music in the window. The singer, an older woman with an aging hippie vibe sang eclectic tunes with a sweet, soulful lilt in her voice. Her musical partner picked and strummed acoustic melodies while offering an occasional vocal harmony. She loved it when we told her during a break that her heartfelt songs were very “off the main road.” The bartender, who doubled as the shop’s owner, showed off his Rolls Royce cappuccino machine, clearly the cafe’s biggest capital asset.

I would soon join the yoga studio. My body, immediately comfortable with the tranquility of the vinyasa flow, still struggled with diminished balance and core strength. The yoga priestess guided us through a meditative practice that felt nourishing. Her words conveyed uncanny physiological intuition; a keen awareness of how specific muscles in my body might feel in a particular movement, and that awareness of the feeling of my own breathing changes how I see everything. I am relaxed, connected to myself, the earth and this group by the energy in the space. And as we eased into a deep, final shivasana, the priestess delivered a homily, reading a Persian poem called The Guest House, that connected many of the things I’d been feeling.

I now find myself drawn often to Main Street, and I think it’s because I like how quietly connected everything feels. It’s a place where I do more listening than talking, observing and only interacting with others when there’s a purpose. Joy seems to spring from the connection to it all without dependance on incessant, self-indulgent transmitting.

The community vibe on Main Street reminds me of a simple electronic circuit, a metaphorical charcuterie board, each of us unique ingredients in a connected circuit with an elegant purpose. Capacitance, resistance, relay, power…each of us bringing a special variety that impacts the whole in subtle ways. Souls flowing like electrons into and through gathering places, the streets serving as the circuit’s metalized trace.

Removing oneself from this human circuit cuts us off from the important little experiences that bring shape to our humanity. We actually need to experience the power of the whole circuit to experience what we’re supposed to experience as people.

Our houses weren’t designed to be empty. They were built for community. We need to fill every room and welcome every guest as often as possible, absorbing whatever it is that they bring to us. And hopefully, one day before we go, we will be lucky enough to learn of the value we silently brought to them.

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The Guest House

By Jalaluddin Rumi

this being human is a guest house

every morning a new arrival

a joy, a depression, a meanness

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor

welcome and entertain them all!

even if they’re a crowd of sorrows

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture

still, treat each guest honorably

for some new delight

the dark thought, the shame, the malice

meet them at the door laughing

and invite them in

be grateful for whoever comes

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond