When Time & Space Left the Chat
Time Space Warp #32
Hey—It’s Toffer.
The food was ready. The guests were hungry.
No one told them they could eat.
Estimated read time: 4 minutes
I was on the phone with the events venue — who, by the way, wasn’t even in the venue. The sound system wasn’t working, and the technicians turned out to be the type who think “reboot” means switching the mic off and on again. A guest asked where the bathroom was, so I pointed the way. And just as I tried to take half a breath, someone asked — “May kape ba?”
Of course there was coffee — but no one knew where it was. Including me.
Everything happened at once. And all of it happened to me.
The guests finally ate. And then it hit me:
Time exists so everything doesn’t happen all at once.
Space exists so it doesn’t all happen to you.
That day, time and space gave up on me. Can’t blame them.
The food showed up. The venue opened. Guests arrived. But we were all just moving — no rhythm, no flow, no clear reason anyone was there beyond showing up.
And I realized the biggest thing we were missing: a disputable purpose.
Not just any purpose — a disputable one. The kind so clear and specific that people can actually argue about it.
Like if you invite friends over and say, “This isn’t just dinner — it’s a hearing on how to say ‘mangga’ in English — how you pronounce it could be a first-date dealbreaker.”
That’s the beauty of a disputable purpose. It’s not just a vague reason to gather — it’s a sharp, almost controversial filter that shapes who you invite, what you do, and how everything flows. It’s the difference between “let’s eat” and “let’s decide, once and for all, if ‘mehng-go’ is grounds for ghosting.”
Suddenly, everyone knows why they’re there — and they care. Even the quiet ones will fight you on this.
Without that purpose, we weren’t gathering around something — we were just gathered.
Therefore, every small problem — from the missing coffee to the sound system — had nowhere to land but me.
That’s how I learned, one awkward moment at a time, what happens when you host without generous authority.
Generous authority means you don’t just open the doors, smile, and hope for the best. You protect the purpose, connect the guests, and make sure no one feels out of place — not even that plus-one who doesn’t know anyone.
It’s not about power-tripping — it’s about caring enough to lead.
Instead, I played human panic button — responding to every beep, buzz, and blank stare thrown my way.
No authority, generous or otherwise. Just stress. And coffee nobody could find.
Since then, I’ve learned — not from a book, but from the kind of mess you laugh about months later — that time and space aren’t just concepts. They’re your co-hosts. They hold the beat. They give your gathering air. But they need someone to tell them what kind of gathering they’re even shaping.
Skip that part — and time and space will happily step aside and let chaos take over.
May kape ba?
Your Friend in Time,
Toffer
P.S. If hosting ever made you feel like a human switchboard, read The Art of Gathering by Priya Parker. Turns out, hosting isn’t a stress competition.
P.S.S. And if you’re planning something soon, I know a group who’s really good at designing gatherings that actually work (and yes, they show up in the venue). Message me if you want an intro.