On the Kindling

I recently invited two girlfriends to join me for a weekend in a small resort town my husband and I frequent. They've been going through some things, and I thought a healthy dose of peace and quiet might help. One plays multiple roles in a girls’ school—curator, librarian, substitute teacher, unofficial couch counselor. Another has a young child with autism, aging parents, and is navigating a career transition. We've been friends for thirty years, and they've seen me through countless ups and downs, both personal and professional.

We were scheduled to spend three full days on this beautiful stretch of beach, and we made no concrete plans. We were looking forward to a time of being, not doing.

Before I continue, you should know that I'm generally shy in the wild. This sometimes surprises people who know me from social media. But in that sunny strip of paradise, I’m a more relaxed version of myself. A little gregarious, even. I told my girlfriends I believe there are two reasons for the instantaneous metamorphosis: the expansiveness of the ocean counteracts my anxiety, and it’s hard to be anything but content when the biggest conflicts you face are whether to go to the pool or the beach, have seafood or pizza, get up early or sleep in late.

There's another factor at play, though, if I'm being honest. I find hope and inspiration in the people we encounter there. They do more than appreciate points of connection—they cultivate them. On purpose.

During our short visit, there was the chef who—when we expressed our delight at the yogurt and feta cucumber dish she made—quietly slipped us a plate after she'd closed the kitchen. There was the general manager/chocolatier from France who dropped a new hot chocolate flavor at our doorstep because I raved about the orange blossom one he'd given me the visit before. And there was the lawyer from Texas who excitedly approached me on the beach with his arms flung wide to tell me he heard "we are the same," because he's also a business owner and author. Following a brief chat with one of my two friends, he invited us to his family's bonfire that evening. And when we ran into them while driving back from dinner, they seemed genuinely disappointed that we didn't show.

On the surface, none of these people is anything like us, and yet, they're just like us. They enjoy spending time with their families. They take great pride in their work. They seek peace and beauty in the world. They match their care for others with deliberate action. When we share stories about our children or commiserate about aging, I feel like these are "my people." But when I leave, I sometimes wonder who they voted for. The unavoidable consequences of a divisive world are skepticism and tempered enthusiasm.

I told my girlfriends that John and I have never engaged in political discourse with anyone there. We've not wanted to exchange the real-world connectedness we've enjoyed for the ideological friction that permeates almost every other space we occupy.

I feel two ways about this, of course. On one hand, I want to know who voted for the harm and erasure of people like me, so I can protect my heart, my family, and my interests. On the other hand, I understand how readily hypervigilance chips away at the soul. I also know that exposure to and experiences with unfamiliar people plant seeds of care that can become something more...like connection. Like change.

I'm contemplating why it feels so much safer to connect across boundaries in that place—why I don't anticipate rejection or disrespect the way I sometimes do in other public spheres. I think it's easier to cross invisible lines transiently. We can do anything for a short time, right? It's like smiling. An hour is no big deal. Three hours will make your jaws ache.

But I also believe that when any space is naturally grounded and generally safe, we let our guards down. We drop our shoulders from our ears and breathe more deeply. We stop scanning the environment for threats and freely offer the benefit of the doubt. We ask more questions, and slow down long enough to listen for common ground. I've come to cherish any person, place, or thing that makes way for me to be more present, and to do so with greater ease. In this era, permission to be yourself is a gift too seldom given and received.

Part curiosity, part consideration, part courage—the "common ground" formula is simple to grasp but hard to apply. Realizing our shared potential takes great intentionality and a fortitude that feels impossible to maintain in these times. It requires more wondering than knowing. More caring than convincing. And it is rooted in an increasingly rare degree of humility.

A big job, for sure, and I don’t necessarily feel equipped to complete it. I do, however, feel equipped to begin it. And of course, I know where. With me. I must first believe that shared humanity is possible. And that, even amid collective anxiety and growing uncertainty, I can be the spark that ignites the flame.

Every day, in big and small ways, I'm working on the kindling.

Tara Jaye Frank

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Tara Jaye Frank is author of The Waymakers and CEO of The Waymakers Change Group, a leadership and culture consultancy that helps companies unlock greater contribution across talent segments using our proprietary method, The Way. Tara is also a LinkedIn instructor and a grateful mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend...and helper.