Growing up in rural Alaska, church was one of the few regular, all ages, social events on the calendar. My parents bundled us up and traipsed us through the snow to Nome Methodist most sundays. I liked the singing, the donuts afterwards, the big satin stitched banners that hung above the alter and I loved when all the congregation moved out to the edges of the sanctuary and held hands in a giant human circle. I was always in between my parents, so holding some strange adult’s clammy hand was not a concern. I could suddenly see faces instead of backsides, witness the fish mouth looks of people singing, and I felt the electricity of all those connected beings.

I am not religious now. I did not feel particularly religious then, but I felt the power of the human circle and the collective human voice. It affected me and still feels potent now. The circle contains magic.