The Inner Oven of the Soul

Baking the Bread of Friendship

Photo by Stefan C. Asafti on Unsplash

Being new has its drawbacks.  Some of you might be able to relate.  Yesterday, I had a moment of clarity—a sort of light switch came on and I was able to say—to acknowledge this murky feeling that had been hanging out inside my inner oven.

I want to be known. I want to have the rich history of friendship where I am both known and I know—a space where many gatherings, many coffees and many lunches resulted in a knowing that acknowledged that I am not alone. That together, we are better—that two is really better than one.

For the past year and a half, my wife and I have been the new kids on the block here. We are new to our mountain town; new to the shops; new to the church, new to backroads and shortcuts and hidden oasis of beauty.  But, we are also new to the people we are now beginning to call friends.

When it’s quiet and I get still inside, I wonder what it would be like to go over and have time with someone who has known me—known me for more than a mere eighteen months. Something very, very good happens when we are familiar with each other where we know things—we know stuff—we know the unwritten innuendos that speak a volume about a story never yet shared. We know the language of the eyes, the tone of voice—the way someone sits when you’re talking. 

Being new—you are starting over again with every person you meet.  You might talk—but you’re not really talking. You might hear about their trip; their garden of tomatoes and their kids and grandchildren. But really, it’s like ordering appetizers—waiting on the main dish. The kind of friendship I am talking about is like baking bread in an oven—a pizza if you will and you can’t take it out—before it’s done. That’s the key. Friendship, like bread takes time to bake and it bakes in the oven of our souls.

If you’re new to a town, a church, an organization—even a new job, or heck—even new to another human being, it just takes time to settle in; know the customs, understand the culture and even learn the vocabulary.  It takes listening to many stories to fully understand, doesn’t it?

 Until that bridge is crossed, one is not fully on the other side of leaving one shore—one relationship, where one is known and the other side on new ground. This in-between state is what has surfaced for me.

It is a state of being where one is  still new—still a beginner—still a transient—homeless in a way—where one is not yet fully home. Home is a place where you’re  known—a place where your history is just as present as this very moment. No translation is needed because the same language is spoken.

When we make new beginnings, we probably don’t budget in the transition time of what it’s going to “feel” like for maybe, a long, long while—a while defined by getting on the other side of the bridge to the new land.  You might be on new land but until there is this dawning that you are home—that there is an unspoken and invisible connection that is the tie that binds us.

It takes time.

It takes opportunities—some which might be missed and some fully conscience to the heart that informs you that this place; this person will be your friend—your very link to be together.

It takes the right ingredients—the inside stuff that makes a life giving friendship as some ingredients that you sort of just know—you somehow acknowledge— “Hey, wait a minute, we have alot in common here.” Or it is a common need that brings you together that is born out of the ingredients of desire and ability—an ability to talk in a way that you understand and in language you recognize as your “mother tongue.”

I think it also takes blessing. I say blessing because having a friend who is “more” than a friend is a gift from above.  These kind of people are just picked like I pick beans. There is much more to having a friend—a connection than we might ever realize unless we view friendship with the eyes of heaven.

To be clear, and as I have written on Substack many times, I’ve taken a lot of initiative  to create opportunities to know and be known. And after eighteen months, I am beginning to see where some real potential lies. 

It’s just that yesterday, I was able to say to Gwen what lies underneath: I would like to be known.  And in the saying of that very sentence to Gwen—there opened yet another conversation between us to talk about what that really might look like at our age and stage of life.

So, for all the new subscribers, this is where there is a line in the sand. I go on and flesh this whole idea out now in a poem. This is a new poem—a new way of saying more but by using less words.  This poem is rich with language I am fluent in—the language of the church. If that’s not your thing, then just allow me to express this deep sense of knowing and connection through the timeless imagery of communion or the Eucharist as we call it in the Episcopal church—another new place for me these days.

Just yesterday, we attended a new class called “Being an Episcopalian 101.” The number “101” refers to the very beginning in learning the core and fundamentals of a subject. After having visited this parish for eighteen months, we both felt the need to know more—to know some history—to know the stories that shaped this particular church.  See what I mean?  Eighteen months is really a span of time to admit to a new person, a new place—a new church, that there is a whole lot more to know.

My poem is me saying just this.  The poems that I share here on Substack are readable if you take a step further in with me and become a “Paid Subscriber.” That way, you get access to all my prose and poems. I hope you will and I invite you to do so. But if it’s a deal and you just can’t. I get it. Just email me at info@pottersinn.com and I’ll get you on board—poems and all.

As you read the poem, I’d so appreciate you leaving me the line of phrase that sort of hit you—or invited you to think more deeply on friendship or being new or in some way expressed something you liked. It really inspires me and helps me when you do this.

And here’s something to all of those who are not new; those of you who are settled and love all the feelings and benefits of being settled offers; remember some of us are not yet. Some of us feel homeless—though we have a roof and bed. Some of us are as migratory as the Canadian geese who are lovely to look at in flight—but who are in search of the pond that is home.