Push the Tables Together

It was the day before Thanksgiving break. I sat in my car before going to my classroom. I do this often, sit in the silence for a few minutes. My silent battle cry to take on the unpredictable day ahead.

Today felt different. I could tell my body, mind, and soul craved something. The signs were all there. Shallow breaths, shaky hands, tears behind my eyes, a fragile smile. I could feel it. This craving in my bones. I thought I craved silence. Just leave me alone and let me get through this day. I thought I craved rest. I’ll turn off the lights, lock my classroom door and sit at lunch with my head on my desk. I doubted I’d be able to make it through this day.

Then, my first hour struck. They were a slow storm brewing. I asked them to write a gratitude journal for five minutes. They knew the drill. We do this often. Five minutes of silence we needed. I heard some low rumbles of resistance throughout the class, making me crave those silent five minutes even more.

As they got their notebooks out I found myself rambling about Thanksgiving in America. “It is more than just eating a lot of good food. My dad once made us go around the table at Thanksgiving and say something we were grateful for.” I don’t know why I was telling them this. I’m honestly not even sure it’s a true childhood memory or if I imagined it from some holiday movie.

Suddenly, they struck like lightning. “Miss, can we do that?”

My face crumpled with confusion, “What?”

“Yeah, can we push the tables together like a family dinner and go around telling what we’re grateful for?” Others around the room chimed in agreeably. Even my most reluctant boys in class thundered with a little laughter and agreed – merely to get out of writing, I’m sure.

Just as my silence-craving-bones were about to say, “No. We have other things to do.” I let the storm set in and take over. “Really?” I questioned. “Ok, yeah. Let’s push all the tables together and circle up! If only we had food to eat” I joked.

The tables and chairs shuffled around on the creaky wood floor. For the first time, I didn’t have to fight phones or earbuds stealing their attention. Those distractions disappeared. I had their attention somehow. It’s as if the collective bodies in that classroom craved something too.

We all sat around the patchwork of tables looking at each other. “This is weird. We’ve never actually…looked at each other this closely before,” one student said. I let the disconnected silence sit in the air, their connection growing. Eyes meeting eyes. Smiles spreading. The restlessness of this storm settling.

Low and behold, they were craving connection. This whole time, we’ve been sitting in the same room for months, and they’ve been craving a deeper connection. The disconnected lonely rumbles of thunder were starting to turn into rumbles of laughter and chatter.

Isn’t it interesting how we often realize our body is craving something after it seems too late? We get dehydrated and feel the need to drink gallons of water because nothing quenches our thirst. We lack sleep and grow deliriously tired until our bodies can’t sleep. We go hungry and start to feel nauseous until nothing sounds appealing.

We lose connection a little each day until we don’t know how to sit with others and be seen.

What had my class agreed to, exactly? Physically, we agreed to push the tables together, pull up a chair, and make eye contact. Ultimately, we agreed to draw closer, position ourselves to be seen, and look long enough to see others.

When we agree to this vulnerability we walk away more full, thriving in a longer-lasting deeper connection. These students went around the table and listened to each of their peers speak simple heartfelt gratitude. They embraced the awkwardness. They heard similarities and differences alike.

Then, you know what they asked me?

“Can we stay like this for the rest of class as we work? We want to be together. We want to see each other.”

They set the tone for the rest of my classes that day. The tables remained pushed together. Gratitudes continued to fall from each students’ lips. My students fed their craving for connection at that family makeshift dinner table.

As we dive into the end of year festivities, as we change normal routines and sit with people we occasionally see, can we accept this challenge of connection? Can we push our tables together, pull up a chair, and make eye contact?

Or rather, can we dare to draw close, position ourselves to be seen, and look long enough to see others?

Maybe this starts small. Maybe the deeper connection actually starts with a text message instead of a Snapchat. Maybe it’s a phone call or voicemail instead of a text. Perhaps it’s sitting at coffee instead of casually saying hello and goodbye. Maybe it’s family board games or puzzles instead of constantly checking apps on our phones.

When we dare to connect we feel more full, we find more laughter, more genuine conversation. We bravely accept being known. We bravely invite the person across the table to be known as well.

However, if we agree to stay distracted, stay in the habitual rhythms of disconnect, we remain lonely. Our body and the collective bodies around us will continue craving connection until it feels too late. It’s never too late.

On behalf of my students this year, you’re invited to push the tables together, pull up a chair and make eye contact. Dare to move from anxious, uncertain, and restless to bold, courageous, and connected.

Send the text. Make the call. Push the tables together. Lock eyes. See what happens next.

Picture via pixabay.com