print previewback GEORGE FERRANDI
we are each other’s atmosphere Audio & Transcript
10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1
Okay. Here we are. Alone in our bodies. Together in this space. And together in this moment of the story. Let’s just take a minute to acclimate to that. Your story is intersecting with each of ours at this table.
If you feel comfortable, close your eyes for just a bit or just soften your focus. In the past, this would have been the time to inhale deeply together, mindful of the fact that we are all sharing this same air. Instead, let this be the first acknowledgement of the pervasive changes brought into our lives by the pandemic: Breathing the same air is no longer a relaxing thought, or one that makes us feel closer to each other. So let’s just breathe normally and instead acknowledge that we are connected by this experience and sharing this sound:
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Imagine it is the sound of a round stone dropping into the glassy black surface of a lake.
Open your eyes as the sound ripples out to you once again from the center of the circle
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This sound is kind of the opposite of a punctuation mark. It indicates the start of our shared story, and its ripples continue indefinitely, drawing a circle around us in this moment that will expand perpetually into the future. Forever, the eight of us will be connected to each other through this experience, however humble it is.
In French, to have an affair is to have a “story” with someone. The language of love equates narrative with intimacy. Do you ever think about that in elevators? That if you get stuck, these are the people you’re having a story with?
The author of A Ship Made of Paper, Scott Spencer, was asked about how he developed such nuanced personalities in the characters of his stories, and such complex relationships. He said that wasn’t the hard part for him. The hard part was getting his characters into and out of rooms.
Similarly, a new friend recently told me she admired my courage in being willing to “go there” into heavier conversations. I told her that part isn’t what takes courage for me; what’s courageous for me is making small talk at parties.
If at any point, this willingness of mine to “go there” doesn’t work for you, if you find it triggering or trivializing, feel free to exit the story. But, if you do decide to step out before the rest of us, please Turn over the last row of tiles—the row closest to you in your section—before you leave the table. That will leave things in a better place for us later . . .
On one of my dad’s last days in the hospital, he called my name from where he was laying on a gurney in the middle of the room. I was sitting nearby, and jumped up to stand closer. What is it, dad? You need something? Just . . . be around me. He said.
Be around me. Not be near me, which is about proximity. Be around me. Like a ring of trees. Or a range of mountains. Be around me. Like atmosphere.
What does it mean for a singular entity to be around? Like a question that has been around forever. Or ideas that will always be around. To be around is to exist. To be around you is to exist with you; To be part of your story.
So let’s take a minute to look around the table at who we’re being around. Don’t feel pressure to make eye contact, this is about looking at the actual faces of these other humans in your orbit. The shape of a nose, maybe, or the strength of a cheekbone. A pattern of freckles. It’s rare we get permission to spend time just observing another person’s face—even a loved one’s—without it carrying some psychic weight. Maybe you already have a long history with one of these faces? Or maybe this is your “meet/cute,” like they say in the movies? Is there a way that you can flip the script on your existing dynamic with these other characters? If you’ve known them forever, can you meet them again here for the first time? And if you’ve only just met, can you approach this moment together as if you already love each other? It takes a kind of re-sculpting of the space between us. A re-membering of our sentience as separate from our soft shells. A re-minding that we are pulsing entities housed in mortal disguise. Can you see the truth of that in each other’s faces. What do we automatically know about each other? What is fair to assume? What do we all have in common?
To focus on that mortal disguise for a bit, I think it’s fair, although not comfortable, to assume that each of us has suffered–to varying degrees–in these last few years of the pandemic. And obviously, each of us have survived. Six and half million souls have not, so while it may no longer make headlines, it is no small thing. You survived. And here you are . . . Here we are, able to be around each other. What does it mean to process something like this together? To give shared energy to these ideas. To let the spirit of the experience catch up with the material reality.
Everyone . . . reach in and put your hands gently on the table with your fingertips close to the center. Don’t worry if you jostle the ceramic tiles. Feel the coolness of their material reality. Take a look at all of these hands, including your own. What stories are being told here? The gorgeous wrinkles, spots or scars? Can you see a pinkness at the tips of the fingers and knuckles? The adornments in the form of jewelry, ink, polish—Tendencies as ancient as humans themselves. Now, don’t move your right hand, but make a note of all the tiles it's in contact with; just your hand, maybe to the wrist.
Flip those tiles over and consider the imagery drawn there. Is there one tile that for you could mean hopefulness? Pick that one up and notice its textures. The smooth top, the soft sides, the way the canvas it was resting on as wet clay left an impression on the bottom. Place this tile on the raised platform near you. If you find yourself wanting to feel more grounded during this shared experience, hold onto that tile. Let it be your anchor.
And let the other tiles you’ve flipped over be your ante—like in poker—and move them to the raised center of the table. Ante means before in Latin. Time in lockdown made us lose track of months, even years, but one point on the pandemic timeline remains clear: there was a before. This dark center in the middle of the table marks the end of before. The rows ripple out in time from then, with the future being closest to you.
Gathering around this dark center, I think of my friend, Shea, who is a grief counselor. She describes grief not as something we pass through—like a bubble that pops or a permeable membrane that we leave behind, or a forcefield that loses its power after we move a certain distance from its epicenter. It’s not something we move through at all, but rather, Shea says, something we grow around. Like when a tree grows around a fencepost, or a sign, or even a bicycle. If you’ve ever seen those objects—those obstructions—you know it looks like the stuff of the tree bubbled up around them. Like there was a simmering at the point of their contact and the obstruction just got folded in.
The bicycles are the hardest to believe. If it were a race, between the tree and the bike, we would definitely have put our money on the bicycle to win. (Let’s see if we can slide all the tiles in row four over to the person on your left . . .) It seems to defy the laws of physics. How could this slow-moving, straight-growing life be so distorted by this obstruction that seems like it should have rolled away or fallen over long ago? The pandemic has brought so many distortions to our straight-growing lives, so many obstacles for us to grow around.
Turn over the tiles in row four. Looking at the tiles in this fourth row, is there one that, for you, could represent something about the grief or obstruction you have been growing around? Place that one in the first ring, the one closest to the center in your section. If you need, you can make room for it by removing one of the tiles in that first ring and moving that one to the new hole in ring four.
In our tending to these tiles, I’m thinking of traditions like Catholic rosaries, Buddhist mala beads, Islamic tasbih–where the repeated handling of small similar objects functions like a tactile mantra. Like an abacus for energy spent in honor of hope. In this secular iteration, let’s consider the flipping and handling of each tile a clunky but genuine gesture of loving support. A tangible vote for our healing and well-being, where the texture and temperature of your skin meets the texture and temperature of the stoneware is evidence of our alive-ness. A small but solid mooring in our otherwise unfixed existence.
Whenever I mention something that resonates with your experience of the pandemic, turn over one tile in your section. We’ll start with the rows closest to the dark center and work our way outward. There’s no wrong way to do this. And I realize —the visual metaphor may break down here–that the losses we experienced may not feel like color revealed, but more like color being drained away. But maybe think of each tile you flip as a vote for healing ourselves and the other people at this table:
We wiped down each orange. We cleaned the dog’s feet. We were told it wasn’t airborne. We bought the maximum allowance of hand sanitizer. We were horrified for that doctor in China. We were heartbroken for that town in Italy. We imagined our loved ones intubated. We looked online for facemasks. We stood on fire escapes, clapping. We became our kids’ teachers. We became their only friends. We made zoom backgrounds. We missed meetings. We gained weight. We lost work. We closed up shop. We walked alone in an empty city. We worked from home. We retired early. We put our lives at risk for work. We postponed the trip for work. We postponed our vacation. We postponed our wedding. We missed our big birthday. We broke beloved traditions. We wiped down each orange. We witnessed trucks storing bodies in parking lots. We stopped clapping. Our hair grew long. Our shoes gathered dust. Our masks hung on doorknobs in clusters. We made our own hand sanitizer. We could measure 6 feet with our eyeballs. We learned about N95s. We packed the moving truck ourselves. We moved out. We moved in with our parents. We discussed pod protocol. We debated whether to hug our own mothers. We drank too much. We fell out of touch with good friends. We wiped down each orange. We did not make our dreams happen . . . or even have brunch. We did not meet our new best friends at college. We didn’t fall in love. We didn’t have sex. We didn’t even go to the movies. We didn’t go home for the holidays. We didn’t hold babies. We did not see our parents for a year. We didn’t go to the nursing home. We did not get to see our grandparents again. We did not hold the hand of this person we adored while they died. We didn’t get to say goodbye. We did not have a funeral. We didn’t cry. We didn’t get to comfort each other. We didn’t get to take care of our people . . . .
In recognition of the countless ways we haven’t been able to help each other in the past few years, pick up the tiles from your sixth row and give one tile to each person at the table. From the sixth row from the center, give one tile to each person at the table. As you receive your tiles from your neighbors, keep them temporarily on the outer landing level at the edge of the circle, the raised platform closest to you. A small token of love seen. Your love is seen in this circle. Love washes over us.
Your loss is seen, too. Great or small, nameless . . . or enormous. If you have lost someone, I am so sorry. We sit in solidarity with you, seeing you and the grief that you are growing around . . .
Your loss ripples over us. We are mindful of how its colors permeate the mosaic of your life . . . . We are here, just being around you.
In this spirit—of us all being here for each other, whenever I mention something that provided you with a kind of support or refuge throughout the pandemic experience—anything that has functioned as a kind of resource for your well-being—pass one of your tiles to the person on your right.
We deep cleaned. We redecorated. We started drawing again. We made face masks for neighbors. We mailed letters. We got so much of our own work done. We finally had time. We applied for things we’d been meaning to forever. We made each other coffee. Or cocktails. We sat on couches with spouses. We played board games with housemates. We played cards with parents. We watched movies. We figured out how to play games and play cards and watch movies with people in other places. We adopted animals. We had virtual coffee and remote cocktail parties. We read actual books. We planted actual seeds. We grew flowers. We grew food. We watched birds. We baked bread. We went for walks. We ate lunch in parks. We stared at rivers and lakes and oceans. We adored our animals. We watched so many more movies. We played music. We prayed. We danced, even at home. We started exercising. We sang, even alone. We found our voices. We painted signs of protest. We marched with masks on. We trusted science. We remembered what was important. We realized who we can be. We quit our jobs. We reinvented our lives. We delivered food. We saved other people’s lives. We had babies. We waited in line for the vaccine. We showed our papers to soldiers. We survived.
Maybe survival feels like too strong a word for your pandemic experience. Maybe all that happened was your favorite coffee shop closed for good, or your friends moved out of town, or your office went remote. These are of course tiny things to lose in the larger picture. But as empathetic creatures, we recognize the human impact of those shuttered spaces: the incomes that disappeared, the dreams that vanished. And the absence of those familiar faces contribute to our ongoing sense of wrongness about this new world. The rituals that punctuate our lives disappear with those familiar places and people. Our map of meaning gets smudged around the edges with their erasure. It’s disorienting.
Is there a way we can reorient ourselves through these images? Organize our experience through these icons? Embed our own meanings into these symbols? Or even just create a sense of order by arranging them into patterns?
If any of your tiles are still face down, turn them over. And if you’ve been overwhelmed with resources from your neighbor. feel free to put some of your extras on the shared resource platform in the center.
Take a few minutes to just look at the icons on these tiles, starting to think about which could be associated with the kinds of challenges you experienced—and which feel more hopeful. Does a red drop-shape equal injury? Or hard work? Does a blue square equal a building that provides sanctuary? Or a step on a path to your goals? Does a yellow circle symbolize your best friend? Or the sun? Or both? In a few minutes, I’m going to give you a few categories and you’re going to invent the meaning for the imagery in your section, the content of your story.
Look at the tiles in the first two rows, the ones closest to the center—the grief we are growing around. . . Thinking about the loss or challenges you personally have faced in the last few years, could any of the icons in the first two rows symbolize that difficulty for you? Leave those where they are, and remove the others for now, pulling them back to the raised platform close to you. (And if none of them seem to represent difficulty for you, move them all to that holding space.)
I’m going to tell you about four categories, then I’m going to give you time to think and move the tiles around. I’ll repeat this next bit of information for you several times over the next few minutes, so don’t worry if you don’t get it the first time. And feel free to start moving the tiles around now if some imagery is obvious for you.
The first two rows—the ones closest to the dark center–they’re going to hold the grief you are growing around. The different losses you’ve experienced, however great or small. Rows one and two will hold your obstacles, your challenges.
(When it comes time to place the tiles, know that it’s ok if you have more tiles for this category then will fit in these rings; you can stack them. And if you only have a few, or even none, you can just leave space.)
Clear row three for now while I tell you about the other categories. Put the tiles from row three on your holding platform.
The next two rows, rows 4 and 5 will hold the resources that have supported you—physically, logistically, emotionally throughout the pandemic. What has been getting you through the pandemic? Your sister? Your writing? Your lilies? Your library? Your faith? Your puppy? Your podcast? Rows four and five hold your resources.
(Again, it’s fine to stack tiles or leave space in rows if the number of tiles you need to place doesn’t correspond exactly with the number of tiles that could fit in the row.)
So . . . Rows one and two hold your obstacles.
Row three is clear. We’ll come back to that later.
Rows four and five hold your resources.
Row six should be clear. If it’s not clear, move your tiles from row six to the center. We’ll come back to that later, too.
The following row—seventh from the center—will hold your pandemic roses; anything you see as positive developments in your body, in your work, in your home, in your neighborhood, in your country—positive change or recalibration brought about by the pandemic. Did you reconnect with a family member? Recalibrate a relationship? Redirect your life? Do you think what the pandemic revealed about us as a culture will be useful in some way? Things that probably wouldn’t have happened, or happened as quickly if it weren’t for lockdown are your roses. Row seven holds your roses.
Rows one, two hold your obstacles.
Row three is clear for now.
Rows four and five hold your resources.
Row six is clear for now.
Row seven holds your roses.
The last row, the one closest to you will hold your aspirations for the future, as of this moment.
personal, communal, global—The last row holds your hope. The pandemic made it easier to imagine radical change in the future because our lives changed radically in the present. I’m going to give you a few minutes to imagine what you want the future to look like five years from now. Do you want to have kids? Have a bigger apartment? What kind of changes do you hope to see in your city? In your country? On your planet? Big questions for a small interval of time, but do your best. Don’t overthink it.
Rows one and two hold your obstacles.
Row three is clear for now.
Rows four and five hold your resources.
Row six is clear now.
Row seven holds your roses.
Row eight holds your hope.
A couple notes:
—It’s ok if a shape that means one thing in row 1 or 2 means something else in other rows. Meaning always changes with context.
—It’s ok to use several tiles together to represent one person or idea or thing.
—A reminder that you can have one challenge, or 20. Zero roses or 11. If all of your resources or obstacles or hopes or roses don’t fit in one level, you can stack them. The quantity becomes part of the picture, too. Likewise, if you leave space in your row because you didn’t have many resources or roses or obstacles or hope, that’s an important part of the bigger story and needs to be told, as well.
—Feel free to take tiles you need from our shared resources in the center.
—Don’t feel like you have to use up all your tiles; hold on to a few for rows 3 and 6.
Ok, so take some time now to map out your stories. I’ll repeat the categories every so often and let you know when you should be wrapping up with each one. You can go ahead and start putting your tiles into their corresponding rows.
Rows one and two hold your obstacles; what you are growing around.
Row three is clear for now.
Rows four and five hold your resources, what and who got you through.
Row six is clear now.
Row seven holds your roses—anything that bloomed for you in lockdown that wouldn’t have otherwise.
Row eight holds your hope–what you’d like to see happen in your life and in the world over the next few years.
You should be wrapping up with rows 1 and 2.
Rows one and two hold your obstacles.
Row three is clear for now.
Rows four and five hold your resources.
Row six is clear now.
Row seven holds your roses.
Row eight holds your hope.
If you haven’t already, move on to rows 4 and 5.
Rows one and two hold your obstacles; what you are growing around.
Row three is clear for now.
Rows four and five hold your resources, what and who got you through.
Row six is clear now.
Row seven holds your roses—anything that bloomed for you in lockdown that wouldn’t have otherwise.
Row eight holds your hope–what you’d like to see happen in your life and in the world over the next few years.
You should be wrapping up with rows 4 and 5.
If you haven’t already, move on to row 7.
You should be wrapping up with row 7.
Rows one and two hold your obstacles.
Row three is clear for now.
Rows four and five hold your resources.
Row six is clear for now.
Row seven holds your roses.
Row eight holds your hope.
If you haven’t already, move on to row 8.
Take just another minute to wrap up.
Now . . . about rows three and six . . .
These are how we connect our stories to the stories of those around us.
Put one of your remaining tiles at the left end of your section on row three. (If you don’t have any left, take one from the shared resources in the center.) This is the beginning of a conversation.
Once everyone has done this, look at the tile your neighbor on your right placed on row three. What tile can you place next to this one that continues that conversation and makes a connection—in color, shape or meaning? Your blue triangle next to their blue square, Your yellow half circle next to their red half circle, your flower and their bird, etc. Go ahead and place a tile next to theirs.
Let’s do something similar for row six, place one of your remaining tiles at the right end of your section. Start the conversation. Once your neighbor to the left has done this, place a tile that makes a visual connection next to the one they placed closest to you, continuing the conversation.
Now let’s build these connections into stronger relationships by placing additional related shapes or colors: If you think of those first two tiles as word pairings, create sentences.
Finally. If you have any remaining tiles, turn them over to face down, and fill in any spaces in your rows with them. These spaces or absences are an important part of the picture, too. Make any final adjustments.
And now, let’s take a minute to absorb this representation of our collective experience, of what you are growing around, of what is helping you grow, of the wealth or dearth of our resources, the bouquet of our roses, the accrual of our losses, the sum of our hope . . .
Close your eyes, again if you feel comfortable—and hold the image of these rings in your mind.
We started this story with the simulated sound of a stone being dropped in dark water.
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The ripples from that stone continue indefinitely. Over time, we’ll move further and further away from the dark center of our shared story, with the faint circles that have been drawn around us by this experience expanding ever outward, lacing thisstory we’ve shared together with our next story . . . and the one after that . . . and the one after that . . . but the future will always be the ring closest to us, even if the past is much darker.
Thank you for making this with me. When you hear the sound again, I’m going to click the shutter on a little overhead camera, so there is a record of this image of our experience. You can open your eyes now and look up if you like, or down if you’d rather not be recorded.
And after the sound, whenever you’re ready, take off your headphones. This sound is not a closing punctuation because it comes at the beginning of our next story, which opens not with the sound itself, but with the act of us listening . . . .
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