Participation, Higher Goals, and Correspondence

Once, there was a rope. It wasn’t just a thing—it was a line, full of life and possibilities. For a long time, it had been curled up in a box inside an old warehouse. The rope wasn’t sure what it wanted, but it was tired of staying still. It wanted to move, to meet others, to see what might happen.

So one day, the rope slipped out of the box and made its way to the warehouse door. Just before it could leave, it saw a wooden cube. The cube had many holes in it and stood like a quiet guard.

“Hello,” said the rope.

“Hello,” said the cube. “If you want to go out, you need to play with me first.”

“I’d like that,” said the rope. “That’s why I left the box—to try something new.”

The cube lay on the ground, and the rope began to move through its holes. It twisted and curled, going in and out, making shapes it had never made before. At first, it felt exciting—like dancing with a new friend. But after a while, the rope felt stuck. The holes in the cube told it where it could go. The rope had ideas for new shapes, but the cube didn’t have space for them.

“Thank you,” said the rope. “That was fun. But I don’t feel free. I want to move in ways that aren’t already planned out.”

So the rope moved on.

Later, it found a bar. Inside, there were two bright glasses—one yellow and one blue. They were laughing, talking, and dancing to the music.

“You look like you’re having fun,” said the rope.

“We are!” said the glasses. “Watch this!”

The bartender gave them an empty glass. The yellow and blue liquids poured themselves into it. They mixed into a bright green drink and cheered with joy. But after a while, something changed. The green lost its sparkle. The two liquids began to argue.

“We can’t go back,” said the yellow.
“I don’t even know who I am anymore,” said the blue.

The rope watched quietly. It understood. The glasses had become one thing, but lost the special parts that made each of them different.

“This isn’t what I want,” the rope thought. And it slipped out of the bar.

Feeling unsure and a little tired, the rope passed an old bike leaning against a wall. On the ground beside it lay a rusty chain. The bike wasn’t locked. The chain just rested there, quiet and still.

“Hi,” said the rope.

“Hi,” said the chain. “Want to play?”

“I don’t know,” said the rope. “You’re heavy and rusty. You’re made to lock things up.”

“Maybe,” said the chain. “But let’s just see what happens.”

The chain slowly wrapped itself around the rope, not to trap it, but to move with it. The rope pushed a little. The chain pulled a little. They twisted together, each making space for the other. They didn’t become the same. They stayed different. But they moved as one—through listening, adjusting, responding.

And so, the rope and the chain played together.

Not forever, but for a good, long while.