Are You at Home in Your Own Skin?

Look at table four.

A group of friends. Loud laughter. Clinking cutlery. Arms reaching across the table to steal a bite of a Nordic toast. It is the picture-perfect image of "community." We call this "sharing a meal." It is one of the oldest rituals of the human species. We believe that by eating together, we are merging.

But this is a romantic illusion.

Zoom in. Closer.

Watch the moment the woman in the blue sweater takes a bite of her food.

The fork enters her mouth. Her lips close. And in that exact micro-second, she leaves the group. She exits the room. She is transported into a private, sealed universe that no one else can enter.

The crunch of the crust, the burst of acidity from the lemon, the smoke of the fish—this symphony is playing in a concert hall with only one seat. The man sitting six inches away from her has no access to it. He sees her chewing. He sees her smile. But he cannot feel what she feels.

She is utterly, hopelessly alone in her sensation.

This is the great paradox of the dinner table: We are never more physically close, yet never more experientially separate.

We try to bridge this gap with words. We say, "Oh my god, you have to try this." We cut a piece and shove it towards our friend. We are desperate to synchronize our realities. We want them to taste what we taste so we don't feel so isolated in our pleasure.

But even if they eat it, they are tasting it with their tongue, filtered through their memories, processed by their brain. They are having their own private explosion, not yours.

We are islands. We can wave to each other from the shore. We can shout across the water. We can eat at the same time. But we can never truly inhabit the same island.

Does this make you sad? It shouldn't.

The mind creates misery out of aloneness because it confuses aloneness with loneliness. Loneliness is begging for someone to be there. Aloneness is the majestic realization that you are a complete world unto yourself.

When you understand this, the pressure of the "shared meal" evaporates.

You stop performing enjoyment for the benefit of others. You stop nodding and saying "Mmm" just to keep the social vibration humming. You drop the act.

You realize that while your bodies are gathered around a table, your consciousness is free.

You are allowed to retreat into the sanctuary of your own senses. When you take a sip of coffee, you are allowed to close the door on your friends for three seconds and be alone with the coffee. That relationship—between you and the flavor—is exclusive. It is a secret affair.

In fact, the only way to truly be with others is to first be comfortable being alone with yourself.

If you cannot enjoy the taste of a meal in the privacy of your own silence, you will bring a needy energy to the table. You will eat to be seen eating. You will talk to avoid feeling.

So, here is the invitation for your next gathering at Heaffles.

Be together. Laugh. Talk. But when the food touches your tongue, accept the solitude. Don't try to drag everyone else into your mouth. Don't try to narrate the experience.

Go inside. Meet the sensation. Enjoy the fact that for this brief moment, you are experiencing a pleasure that belongs to you and you alone. The universe has gifted this specific taste to this specific nervous system.

We are all eating alone, together. And that is a beautiful thing.

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