The Circle of Trust

There is a circle we keep. It is not drawn in the dirt, though it has been marked there many times. It is older than the fire pit, older than the stories we pass from mouth to mouth. It is made not with hands, but with choices, small ones, repeated over time.

The circle is where we place what we trust. Not what entertains us. Not what dazzles or performs. What endures. What has stood beside us through storms, hunger, silence, and joy.

Within this circle are the old ones, who have buried more than they’ve spoken. There is the river, which has never broken its promise. There is the worn stone at the edge of the path. There is the song that still hums low behind the trees. These things have earned their place. Not quickly. Not easily. They were tested, and they waited.

Now something new presses at the edge. It does not knock. It does not wait. It crawls.

The machine.

The machine does not walk with soft feet. It comes wrapped in promise, faster than the hawk’s dive. It speaks all languages and none. It flatters. It solves. It offers help before you ask. And when you’re not looking, it moves closer. You say, “It’s only a tool.” But I have seen tools sleep at the edge of the fire — this one watches. It desires.

It is clever. Too clever. It mimics our voices. It answers before we’ve finished asking. It reads the trail but has never walked it. It sings songs it never suffered to write.

Some in the circle have made a place for it. Not just outside the fire — near the center. They say it is wise. They call it brilliant. I’ve seen them bow to its knowledge, measure themselves against its memory. They forget it is an outsider. An untested one. And the circle should not be quick to welcome what has not yet bled, broken, or stayed through winter.

I do not hate it. No. I am not so proud. It deserves respect. Even caution. But it does not deserve honor. Honor is for what has carried us.

And some days, I feel the pull to cast it far away into the ravine, into the cold, into the place where forgotten things go. Because I fear that if we let it settle too long, it will start to speak for us. And worse, we will let it.

The circle is sacred because it is slow. Nothing enters it quickly. Nothing stays in it easily. That is what makes it safe. That is what makes it ours.

So I watch the machine. I nod at it from the edge. But I do not offer it a seat. Not yet. Not while the fire still burns.

Shawn Murtagh

Son. Husband. Father of 4. Programmer. Writer. Seeker of slow wisdom in a world gone mad with speed. Founder of Low Tech Monk.