Whenever I think about making or holding space for others, I think about carpentry. I dream of simple tables made with simple materials, products of the middle ground between utility and artistry. Sometimes they’re stained. Sometimes they’re bare, reminders of the trees they once were. But these tables, they are not here to admire. They are not here to be eaten upon. They are not here to be decorated or inserted into Pinterest dream boards. No, these tables are here for one purpose only: to hold weight.
Whenever I think about the pressure we feel as humans, both self-inflicted and pushed upon by others, I think of a stack of books, papers, and other rectangular tedium, smushed and piled atop each other, a leaning, swerving column over ever-shifting gravity. The forearms begin to flare up. The weight cannot be held much longer. And so the body shifts, in ways both awkward and dangerous, to change the center of the situation. To find something approaching comfort. It’s bound to fail. The pile will clatter to the floor, a cacophony of failure, overextension, and demoralization all crinkled together.
In this metaphor, there’s only one way to help: to tap the person on the shoulder and guide them in the direction of this particular table. To slowly move in unison with their hands, nudging them towards the boundaries of this wooden place of respite. All the responsibilities and worries and fears and deadlines still exist. They’re not going anywhere, still stacked high above everyone nearby. But for a minute, if only a minute, the person can feel their way back to something normal. They can rediscover the contours of a healthier body. They can remind themselves of what of these pressures they have control of and which they do not. They can gather themselves and begin again, a bit stronger than before, still weary but always, always thankful for that safe space in their time of need.
