Words are currency. I certainly admire the careful construction in placement and the stringing of phrases together to help us make meaning for a concept. As a writer and teacher, I tend to use my words carefully. At times, too carefully. Sometimes, I maneuver too much – sentiments that manifest in sanitized versions of truth that fail to register because it lacks true substance. Sometimes, I overflow like a fountain – syllables that won’t stop gushing from fingertips in text. And sometimes, I stay silent – muteness in moments as phrases lodge heavily in my mouth, stuck behind my teeth.
These struggles are often worst when I feel something deeply – when I make a mistake, when I’m feeling mushy, holding everything tender a little too gingerly and close to my chest, or when I am forced to reveal words I imagine are going to be hurtful for another to hear. In the midst of these situations, my range of expression feels limited.
Christabel Mintah-Galloway offered some insights on struggles of this type in a series of posts on Instagram, explaining: “The tension: but when it comes to staying … Staying in your body. Staying with your people. Staying with the hard conversations … you freeze. Or flee. Or fold.
“The hidden truth: Because no one taught you how to stay in relationships without disappearing. Without over-explaining. Without shrinking yourself or shutting it all down. The skill gap: Understanding your triggers isn’t the same as knowing what to say in the moment. Knowing your trauma history isn’t the same as knowing how to repair after rupture. The invitation: That’s where relational skills come in. Not because you’re broken. But because this is a language most of us were never taught. You’re not behind. You’re not too much. You’re just under-practiced.”
That felt real. “Under-practiced” resonated. Her words provided a place to move toward rather than a helpless paradigm of inevitable inertia from the fixed idea of a deficiency of self. Her construction also feels important for this moment. Societally, we are treating folks as increasingly disposable. We ghost, we deport, we incarcerate, we distance, we evade. That’s a choice. Books advocate for us to “let them (go).” After all, renegotiating relationships after a rupture commonly requires herculean effort. Simultaneously staying with ourselves as we reach out to connect with others can demand immense labor. Good modeling seems scarce. Communally, we appear somewhat under-practiced at saying in right relationship, especially when things get hard.
But circles – a restorative practice and tool – serve as an antidote to this ailment. Circles – according to author Kay Pranis are “old things made new” – ancient yet evolving Aboriginal justice tech from a variety of cultural lineages designed to enhance kinship. Circles can be held for many reasons – support, community building, conflict resolution, reintegration, and celebration. Additionally, well-facilitated circles
- Honor the presence and dignity of every participant
- Value the contribution of every participant
- Emphasize the connectedness of all things
- Support emotional and spiritual expression; and
- Give equal voice to all
- Personally, circles are changing my capacity to handle difficult conversations. They have lessened my skill gap, equipping me with transferable tools through tangible application for use in those situations where I struggle. However, I think it’s important to pause here for a confession. Because, although I’ve proselytized circles for a while, I only became a true believer once I stopped intellectualizing their value and started experiencing them regularly. Kind of a walking cliché. Stepping right into Fred Hampton’s wisdom: “Theory is cool, but theory without practice ain’t sht.” And practice is how these tools have survived. We owe an immense debt of gratitude to the circle keepers, who safeguarded these justice prototypes, refined over eons of experience and passed down through generations.
For me, circle work has proved to be profound work, but don’t take my word for it, some truths should just be experienced. You should talk, sit and breathe your way into knowing.
Circles teach me every time I enter one. This is still true despite my recurrently mistaken mindset that they won’t, which usually occurs sometime before I enter. Here’s how it can play out. Generally, I come into a circle hot – a little too hot – likely from all my rushing around. The fever dreams of hyper-efficiency brought on by the busy-ness of this American life. I arrive as a golden child steeped in insistent Western ways, means, and values of being and relating, carrying traces of that swirling energy.
Yet, the circle accepts me anyway. It welcomes me in whatever state I arrive, including my altered state of disbelief over its values of simplicity and slowness. Every time, after a few minutes, a shift begins. My body settles. The soothing rhythm of an explanation of process and purpose and the opening ceremonial round feel like a repose. My body notes the change before my brain. I’m grounded. Suddenly, I can better observe myself. I find myself sighing, rolling my neck, and regulating my breathing, eventually my emotions as well. The first shift is physical. It soon gives way to the second – a psychological shift that typically ushers in a calmer sense of well-being – a beckoning to just “let it be.”
When things are really good, I am able to accept the invitation to deep listening. When I can attune for understanding rather than the typical response after internal rehearsing. Often by this point, I’m marveling, realizing that I’ve done way more listening than talking, but that act is generative. Our combined actions are co-creating something important – a new shared reality we’ve dialogically built together. You can hear it in the way voices are often soft and hushed – essentially reverent. You can see it in the way our bodies are aligned, turning into the center, toward each other. You can sense it the silence of our communal “bated breath.” The thing about a circle is that no two are ever alike. The experience is dynamic, unpredictable, and you have very little choice but to go along for the wild and beautiful ride. Or as Tyra from Collective Justice explains, “Really, you don’t know where the circle is going to go. Because a circle is shaped by everyone’s influence, by everyone’s sharing.”
Circles also create opportunities for authenticity. Because when you give up rehearsing, your true self is free to contribute. In choosing to be genuine, you do give up a certain measure of control – primarily, the ability to whittle those self-censoring narratives – but you gain, as well. By putting your trust in the circle – the process, each other, and your self – you accept that “what is meant to be shared will be” (wise words from my co-partner in this work, Julie Schaffer). And in doing so you gain the gift of something holy – pure, unfiltered truth emerging from an authentic collective.