It was Sunday, Mother’s Day, and I was exhausted. What I really wanted was a nap.
Instead, I dragged myself out of bed because I had committed to hosting a nature meditation at a Mother’s Day Walk and Wellness event. Part of me wanted to share my favorite trail with people. Another part wanted to share my spiritual work with the community. As one of the event vendors, I was expected to check in hours before my actual offering.
I made a large iced coffee, filled a water bottle with Liquid IV, and packed my supplies into the car. There had been vague mention of sound bowls, so I loaded my black cart with instruments too, preparing to haul them down the trail if needed.
At the library where the event began, I checked in and wandered through the vendor booths, knowing they would likely be gone by the time my portion ended. I had just returned to my car, intending to go home for a quick nap before heading to the trail, when I saw my friend Tamara arriving with her two children.
I walked over to greet her and ended up helping her get situated. She was supposed to give a talk, but the details about where and when were unclear. As we sorted things out, we discovered the library’s automatic doors only opened from the inside, likely because the building was normally closed on Sundays and had been opened just for the event.
At one point, Tamara stepped outside to speak with the organizers while her children waited by the doors. I stayed inside so I could let her back in when she returned.
For the next fifteen or twenty minutes, I became the unofficial door opener.
Each time confused visitors approached and stared at the unresponsive doors, I rose from my chair and opened them from the inside. I joked with people that I was the official greeter for the day.
Eventually, I realized Tamara still hadn’t come back.
I walked to the auditorium at the back of the building and found her there alone in an empty room, quietly holding space for an audience that never came.
There were no signs. No posted schedule. No one knew she was there waiting.
Just like I had been holding the door for her, she had been holding space for others.
Neither of us was upset. We both accepted the strange unfolding of the day and surrendered the outcome to the universe.
So we sat together in the empty room and talked instead.
We spoke about the places calling to us, the ideas stirring within us, and the strange purpose behind awakening. At one point, Tamara told me she saw me as a bridge — someone who connects people to something beyond themselves.
Later that evening, I kept thinking about those words.
I thought about the teenage boys and groups of women who stopped to meditate with me on the trail. The little girl fascinated by my sound bowls. The many doors I have held open throughout my life. The many empty rooms I have found myself in.
I thought about the walks where I longed for a friend beside me but never found one consistent companion. The hikes I organized where half the RSVPs never showed. The presentations I gave hoping to ignite something in others, only to discover I was the only one burning. The gatherings I carefully planned, only to end up sitting alone at home staring at a silent phone.
Sometimes the disappointment gets to me.
But when I think back to Mother’s Day, I realize I do not remember the people who never came to Tamara’s talk. I remember Tamara herself. I remember the peace of that quiet conversation in the empty room.
Maybe that is the wisdom in surrendering outcomes.
Maybe the point is not whether every bridge is crossed.
Maybe the point is to keep building them anyway, trusting that someday, the right people will walk across.