THE SPACE OF A PLACE
Via Unsplash.
A dear friend texted me last month. "Guess what?" he exclaimed. "Provided funding goes through, I'll be moving to Ottawa next fall. I can't wait to live in a city where I have friends again!" I picked up my phone, and responded, smiling at the prospect of doing what has largely been a long distance friendship in person. "I can't wait," I typed. "Keep me posted. Let me know how I can help."
Hours later the text came to mind again, and I've found myself reflecting ever since on how we make space for one another.
If this friend moves to Ottawa, he will find a space in which to belong. The community of which I am a part will slide over, creating a space exactly his size in which to be. I say this with confidence because I've seen it before and I know I'll see it again. I say this with confidence because I saw it when the space created was a space sized just for me.
In the past month alone, I've seen people sacrifice their Saturdays to help friends move, block off parts of their calendar to spell off a new parent, invite a new roommate to brunch with old friends, and offer their couch to weary travellers. I've watched quietly as friends have written personal recommendations to potential employers on behalf of new church members, made detours to give good news in person, and sacrificed Saturday afternoons to attend social gatherings outside of their comfort zone, because Ottawa is a shifting place and it's important to claim your space.
When I reflect on my own life, I can mark countless moments in which my development, growth, and learning can be directly attributed to others having made space for me to belong. It's a funny thing, this notion of space. Begin reflecting on it and you'll quickly realize how much you take up, and how much generosity has gone into the construction of that place you now claim as your own.
"I'm learning not to make myself smaller for other people," I told someone the other night on the phone while rushing through an airport terminal. And I meant it. But as soon as the words had left my mouth, I realized that the courage to speak those words aloud can be directly attributed to those who have shown me - in word and action - that there really is enough room in the world for the both of us.
The life I live now is entirely contingent on the generosity of space and the magic of place. I'm writing this in a coffee shop, discovered on the suggestion of a friend. I'm peeking out the window in the hopes of spotting a partner in crime I can only call mine because a friend who lives out of town connected us for coffee, highlighting the fact that we are neighbours. I'm listening to a song recommended by a colleague, and wearing a shirt that my mother generously flew out to me on a recent visit because she knows it is my favourite.
I'm on month eight of living in the same city full time. There's something about settling into a space that makes you aware of just how much the rhythm of returning to a space and rooting in a place requires you to feel at home in your place and in your life.
These past eight months have taught me to "honour standing still." I've practiced giving thanks for the cracked wooden floor of my bedroom and the way the light hits just so coming through the curtains in the early morning. I have a regular route to work, and relish the thought of a Saturday spent at home. I no longer buy perishable groceries in perilously small quantities. I have no plane ticket booked for the near future. I show up at church every Sunday. (Well, most.) I schedule things like weddings, church responsibilities, and baby Marcus duty into my agenda weeks and months in advance.
And at the heart of this whole process of learning to be at home in my own space, have been the people around me. This past month alone, I've had friends come on a moments notice to an impromptu pasta dinner invitation, install furniture late in the evening so that my room feels like mine, and let me stop over late at night just to say hello. Last week a friend spent a sizeable portion of their Saturday repairing my bike and sharing a beer. I fell asleep last night on my neighbours couch, mid page of the book I'd been invited over to read in quiet.
And so, as I claim my place in this community of shifting spirits, I find myself looking forward to the shapes that will emerge in the months together as we find ourselves yet again, shuffling around the table to create space for one more.
