I’ve been thinking lately about “Community,” and the many, nuanced meanings and interpretations of that word.
I’m not at all sure why, but for me, “Community” connotes life in a place smaller than a “City.” It means I can go into my local post office and Chris behind the counter speaks to me by name, and so does Diane who works at the bank. It means that, when my neighbors and I go to our town’s grocery store and Girl Scouts are out front selling cookies, we stop and buy a box, no matter how rushed (or broke) we might be. “Community” means that in February, when I begin to run low on dry firewood, Cathleen down the road has some I can bum, but she won’t take money in return -- a plate of cookies or a few jars of homemade jam will be payment enough, she insists.
The main thing I’ve been understanding as I contemplate “Community,” however, is that it is a team sport, a pot luck dinner of everyday life. We all contribute a skill or commodity or energy of some kind or another, if only because to just sit on the sidelines, watching what others are doing, simply would not be any fun.
Two young women who are amazing bakers in our community -- and whose goodies are quite popular at a nearby summer Farmers’ Market -- have recently rented a lovely and vacant farmhouse, barn, and acreage that will be home to an enterprise they call “Food Shed.” Though it is very much a work-in-progress, my sense is that Food Shed will be a place where local foods will be celebrated, and where our community will just plain hang-out together.
A bunch of us happened to be in the farmhouse at Food Shed about lunch time one day last week when a baby goat was born out in the pasture. We took a break from our pastries and soup and went outside to visit the mama and her new baby. We had just experienced several days of Northwest springtime rains, and, finally, were able to bask in a beautiful, sunny day.
A young mother played with her child.
There were smiles all around.
I felt fortunate to be part of this community.
