"There is, in practice, no such thing as autonomy. There is only a distinction between responsible and irresponsible." — Wendell Berry
We live like ghosts.
Content with the discomfort of disembodiment, the unnatural rhythms of separation, the perishability of the well-curated life.
We drift, we wander, we haunt the very spaces to which we already belong — the once well-defined edges of our form blurring into something that seems safer but is more a space in which we look at our ghostly selves in the mirror and panic.
What have I become?
How did I get here?
Have I been the wrong person all this time?
We have a hard time believing the truths spoken by a friend — those who see us more clearly than we see ourselves. We do not want to be forgotten, but we don't want to be seen.
Seen as who we are, as who we are becoming.
Yet, we continue to haunt these places because we cannot bear the idea of exile. We refuse to disappear because we cannot be forgotten. Such separation strips us of our flesh and blood, our tears and marrow, reducing us to a tired apparition that longs for the human touch — the curiosity, the heartbreak, the courage, the humility found in closeness.
Being more human invites greater joy. Greater sorrow. Greater wonder. Great mystery.
Self-protection is unsustainable because somewhere in the deeper places, our soul works tirelessly to learn the language of the spirit, whose groanings are too deep for words. And our groans are not meant to haunt but to heal — to be a way in which we remember our place again, the feeling of fruit-bearing soil against our feet.
We are not ghosts.
"Our bodies are modes of belonging." (Abigail Favale)
We are not intended to move through people but to crash into them, to see and be seen, to know and be known, to give mutually beating hearts the space to learn the rhythms of courageous love. Our work, our relationships, our sexuality are an embodied experience. It matters how we pursue embodiment — how we actively resist distraction and isolation in favor of a community that strives for mercy and humility.
So....
Be hospitable.
Set the table.
Feast slowly.
Waste time.
Be present.
Ask good questions.
Listen.
Pay attention.
And...come to the table someone else sets for you, resisting retreat and letting yourself, in all your mysteries, be known.
Be unhurried in knowing and being known.
Andi Ashworth, in Why Everything That Doesn't Matter, Matters So Much writes, “Imperfections and all, I am still convinced that part of the good work we can do in this life is to give shelter to each other, reflecting in small ways who and what God is for us, and learning what it means to be a hospitable people in the uniqueness of our individual stories."
If you feel like a ghost, return to the shelters from which you fled. Slowly, blurred lines will recover their sharpness, and those you think forgot you will look at you the same way because they never forgot who you are.