The Importance of Circles
by Berit Brecke
September 1, 2023
Rounding the south side of Buck Island, my co-leader Ruby and I search for any open campsites to serve as home for the third night on our canoe expedition.
“I think campsite number ten is open, let me check,” Ruby says confidently. I am the sweep canoe for our group and begin rowing ahead. “It’s open,” they say with relief, and our flotilla of seven Wenonahs and Mad River Canoes docks for the night. There is passion from tent groups to find the flattest spot, ambition in cook groups to take the two best trees for their tarp, and everyone is antsy to fill their afternoon as it is only 12 p.m. Many choose to swim, read a book, or journal. My endeavor of choice is boiling water on the Whisperlite stove to prepare a regular routine of mine for the others around me. I call to my peers and invite them to form a circle. It is time to share maté.
Now, a few weeks later, this maté circle sticks out to my peers and me as we reflect back on foundational moments from our trip. We listened to each other’s rose, bud, and thorn, grew curious about intimacy in friendships, and developed a keen admiration for the depth of conversation possible without phones. It was only day three, and initial dynamics were still settling in. This opportunity to share space proved important to our community, as we would inevitably be faced with adversity farther on down the river.
Maté is a simple practice functioning as a gift passed along to others. A traditional tea from South America, maté serves as a vessel for comradery. The practice emphasizes a message to always share what you have, to which unspoken gratitude is assumed when passing the cup around. The routine of sharing warmth and thanks with community sets a foundation for groups to build trust and appreciation as time goes on.
Last summer I was introduced to maté by a mentor of mine who grew up in Patagonia immersed in maté culture. The traditional form of maté he shared with me is far different than the commonly found commercialized cans from companies such as Guyaki. “Orange Exuberance” or “Tropical Uprising” are the overproduced styles that contrast the still highly caffeinated but flavorful loose leaf consumed through a striking bombilia. Traditionally drank out of a gourd, the bombilia is a straw-like piece which filters out the tea through small little circles. Its bent metal form is key in practicing maté. My mentor illustrated maté as a multifaceted ritual: a social activity to bond over after a long day in the backcountry, a sense of sipped solace on a quiet early morning, a quick pick-me-up during a hard day, or anytime for a feel-good taste of its earthy, grounding essence.
Arguably the most important aspect of indulging in maté is the social etiquette around sharing, which can vary slightly between users. I was taught four rules. One, never move the bombilia. The filtration, once set by the leaves, will get clogged with movement and result in grainy sips for all future cups. The second rule is to always face the bombilia towards the person you are passing to. This is a motion out of respect for others and encourages inclusivity. Third is that you do not say thank you. The sharing of maté is rooted in gratitude, so assumed thanks is understood by all. You may say “Mateché” in acknowledgment, but verbalizing “Thank you” indicates you want to be excluded from further passing, and you’re done for the day. Lastly, when passed a cup, it is all yours to have. You deserve to drink the whole cup before passing it back. These rules of maté allow for a seamless ebb and flow of the energy exuded from passing, sipping, and conversing. Guidelines can vary person to person; for instance, I will always encourage the creation of a circle.
The formation of a circle allows for everyone to be seen, listening to be inherent, and it’s the easiest way to ensure a cup makes its way around. Its shape promotes natural inclusivity, regulating an even dynamic; its shape reflects natural exclusivity, forming a new community. Our circle on Buck Island began the exploration of group values, a necessary step in adding individuality to our circle.
Upon arriving at our yurt village a few days later, our circle had developed a comfortable amount of depth, and the diameter lost a couple of inches. We had all become closer since that first day and the protective space between members had been relieved, translating to a tighter bond. The jubilation of arriving at the front dock for the first time was met with a reading from Evan Eisenberg’s The Ecology of Eden, explaining the purpose of the place we were soon about to know: “You would look for a place nestled neatly in the trough of the wave of human advance. In a word, you would look for Arcadia.” Our circle was entering the space of a new circle, Arcadia, a loophole squished between tilled land and wilderness. We were introduced to the circles of the yurts and yurt platforms, and the three rings in the hoop house. We walked along the log stump cookies lining our pathways, admired the big round cast irons which would cook us food, and traced our hands on the rims of the sauna barrel. Amongst these spaces we were taught the vast network of systems looping around the village that allow for complex life to be kept so simple. The wholeness of the circle is abundant in Arcadia, so we immediately felt connected.
Later that evening, we gathered under the hoop house with Adirondack Semester alumni and our team of directors to enjoy our first dinner in our new home. We crowded along the edge of three squished-together tables, and our groups were intermixed as if this family dinner had been occurring for years.
We were all one large circle of Arcadian dwellers, sharing the excitement of existing in the in-between. Although every semester arrives for a reason, its culture is unique to the people that comprise it. I hold a small 4-oz. green speckled camping mug, home to a thin metal angled bombilia, filled with olive green maté leaves of which no two are alike. I began passing it around our intermixed circle of twelve. Sharing the maté was a signal to the greater group that we had grown together over the past week. Through effortlessly passing the cup around the table, we delivered the unspoken gratitude we all learned to give. Without words, we weaved maté between overflowing plates of food, establishing our new circle that would soon begin to interlock with the existing life in Arcadia.