Under a gray vault, here in Vila, a roof of clouds I never tire of admiring, episodes and texts I skimmed during the week reverberate in my thoughts.

The year-end celebrations already announce their arrival: streets, stores and houses dressed for the occasion. And the events begin to unfold, repeating rituals already lived many times. In the accounts and photographs, the settings are similar, but the people change. Toasts, exchanged gifts and food can confuse, mixing with the celebration of real encounters and coexistence.

Smiles express the joy of belonging, of being accepted and loved. It is beautiful to see, because they eclipse those gifts and foods. They are bigger, more encompassing and intimate. Of these smiles, very few are posted, because they are truly lived (without even thinking of pulling out the phone). They are enjoyed, savored and kept in a special corner of memory.

I remember other events, in form and circumstance. In them, by contrast, there is plenty of time and space for photographic records. In fact, there is little conversation of contact, replaced by something quick and passing.

At this time of year, many sermons thresh at length the word “reconciliation.” Since my mental stage relates in a somewhat dramatic way to words, I rebel against this one. To reconcile presupposes recovering what already existed. When opinions, religions and prejudices dug deep moats between people, was there any conciliation with those on the opposite edges of the ditch?

The path of encounter is built by small, frequent steps. A purpose solidifies and nourishes the intention to protect the relationship from the damage (so human) to which we are exposed almost all the time.

In the encounter, a place is built where people fit whole, with comfort and respect. It is also agreed, little by little but in advance, how to deal with the vital strains. A delicate crochet is woven of common points, or points that match, or points that, because they are so different, adorn the bridge of connection. It is a life project without end. Small adjustments strengthen the points of contact, through changes in the agreements that reinforce the thread, open new horizons and bring unprecedented patterns to the bridge.

I know this almost never happens (but sometimes it does). And I also know that, when an encounter happens, it is hard to keep. Nurturing falls so quickly into oblivion that, as if from nowhere, voices, shouts and events interfere and unravel the stitches.

Here I am again, in various inner clashes (laughs). There is such a great wish to tell each person, on their own edge, to cast threads to one another and begin again to weave presence.

I cannot forget that, with the great distraction that has struck us in these times, entire groups fragmented into solitary islands. The heralds of violence, disrespect and destruction took advantage of the fragility or nonexistence of bridges. Because they did not feel firmly secured by genuine points of contact and were seduced by the constancy of a strange voice, many of us were lost. These people will not be present even at a trivial ritual of celebration.

I have such a great wish that it hurls me into silence: that some of these people talk a little, even if only during the year-end celebrations. That they make plans for a future woven together.

I proposed to myself not to take part merely as a guest on other people’s bridges. Today I organize myself to admire and respect each person’s way. I withdraw when there is nothing to be done.

So I return, with reluctant steps, to “reconcile.” Broken bridges can be mended, but what about bridges that never existed?

Each with a megaphone in hand (no shouting, please), let’s issue invitations. Breathe deeply, look attentively, to the point of seeing the other. Let’s issue invitations. Not just for toasts, but for encounters that have more than a “Hello!” Perhaps even celebrating some people’s giving up, but without giving up on so many.