Friends,
Mid-July. The world is loud this season, and somewhere in it someone is carrying more than they can say.
Eight minutes tonight. 8 PM your local time. Hold one person you will never meet, in a place you will never go, through something you will never know. Sit with them anyway.
Because the practice moves with the hour, it is always eight o'clock somewhere. A rolling wave, once around the Earth, every week.
Come as you are. Even far. Even helpless. Even holding.
See you later, in the silence.
Dedication: May someone far from us feel, for a moment, that they are not alone in it.
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