i had a different edition written for today. it was about doing nothing. it was true and it was safe.

then i read a page in julia cameron's write for life. the section is called vulnerability. she says when writing goes flat, it is because we are refusing to say the thing we have decided is unsayable.

in the margin of that page, there is a line from natalie goldberg:

be willing to be split open.

so here is the other edition.

for eleven months, a hundred and two people lived under the same roof.

we fought.

we laughed.

we studied.

we celebrated festivals.

we cared for each other.

we became kind to each other.

somewhere along the way, the place stopped feeling like a place we were studying in.

it started feeling like home.

but even in a home, sometimes you find a corner where you don't feel like you belong.

so the boy made a smaller room.

a few people.

a smaller circle.

people with whom he could be himself. people with whom he could say things without first figuring out how they would sound.

that room became home too.

and maybe that is how the boy learned to belong.

not by belonging to everyone.

but by finding a few people with whom he didn't have to try so hard.

then one day, the boy found himself standing in the middle of the house.

people had questions.

the questions were fair.

they were trying to understand something they had not known about.

and the boy understood why they were asking.

but being the person everyone was asking about felt different.

the conversation was not really about the boy.

but the boy was in the middle of it.

the questions were about a door they didn't know was there.

the boy did not answer.

the conversation moved on.

but something inside the boy had not.

he went back to his room carrying a pain he didn't know what to do with.

sometimes nothing is wrong with the question.

sometimes nothing is wrong with the person asking it.

and still, something hurts.

that was the strange part.

the boy was happy to see people come together and ask.

he was also hurting because he was the person they had come together around.

both were true.

and then, separately, a few people came.

not to ask about the conversation.

not to ask for an explanation.

just to ask,

how are you?

that question felt different.

there was nothing to explain.

nothing to prove.

nothing to solve.

the boy could just be hurt.

maybe that is what a small room is for.

not to protect us from the pain.

but to give us somewhere to put it.

a place where we don't have to be okay.

a place where someone notices.

the pain is still there.

but the boy moves on.

how is the boy?

be kind, help people, trust muruga.

nami

Weekend outing