September Light

There’s something in the air at Workshop —
an energy that doesn’t just fill the space,
it weaves through us.
Between us and our partners,
our community,
like invisible threads pulling beautiful souls
together for something bigger.

Some days, though, even amidst all that light,
I feel heavy.
And on one of those days,
I listened to the stillness I've learned to seek—
from the meditations, from the breaths,
from the lessons Workshop has whispered to me
about pausing.
About feeling.

So I drove to Wantagh State Park,
chasing the kind of silence that speaks.
The sun warmed my skin —
a perfect September warmth,
not too bold, just enough.
The water shimmered with gentle movement,
boats hummed like echoes from my childhood,
and distant laughter floated by
like it was meant to find me.

I sat with it all—
the joy around me,
and the ache within me.
And then… a man.

A quiet soul with a Korea Veteran hat
and eyes that carried lifetimes.
He asked if I was cold.
(Just a breeze. Just shorts. Just… human.)

His simple kindness cracked something open,
and I wept.
Not from sadness alone,
but from the overwhelming reminder
that there is still so much good
in the world.

He sat with me.
A stranger, and yet not.

We spoke of grief—
his beloved wife, recently passed,
his best friend in every way.

I told him where I live,
near where the old Knights of Columbus once stood.

His eyes lit up.
“I built that,” he said,
“Helped start it… sixty years ago.”

And my heart leapt.

Because—of course.
Of course the universe brought us together.
Because that’s the very spot
my best friend and I now call home—
Workshop.

We turned it into a space to gather,
to breathe,
to lean,
to laugh,
to cry,
to be.

Just as he once built it to be.

And in that moment,
we weren’t strangers.
We were part of a lineage—
builders of belonging,
keepers of community,
each of us holding the baton in our time.

I invited him to visit.
He smiled, and we said goodbye,
but my soul stayed high
long after I left.

Two days later,
Joe walked through our doors.

Not as a stranger.
Not even as a guest.
But as homecoming.

He promised he will visit often.

And every time I see him,
I’ll be reminded—
this place is magic.
Not because of what’s inside the walls,
but because of who finds their way
to each other
inside them.

Knights of Columbus.
Workshop.
Different names.
Same purpose.

Connection.
In real life.
In real time.

Written by Amanda Spillane