In which I discover that togetherness is not just proximity, but a practice of the heart
Community is one of those words that gets thrown about like confetti at a village fête. It sounds lovely, agreeable, warm even,but it’s rarely defined, and when it is, it’s often confused with mere sociality. People living near one another, working alongside each other, nodding civilly at the post office,that sort of thing.
But proximity, while helpful, is not quite the thing itself. True community is not simply being near others. It is the sacred art of being with them.
And here lies the wonder and the challenge. For one does not drift into community by accident, the way one might drift into a nap or a mid-afternoon biscuit. Community, as I’ve come to understand it, is something we build. Slowly. Intentionally. Brick by awkward brick.
I was reminded of this recently while attending a rather dishevelled gathering of neighbours,a bring-your-own-chair affair held under questionable fairy lights in a shared courtyard. The food was mismatched, the conversation mildly chaotic, and the seating wildly uneven. But there, amidst the curry and fish, I found something oddly beautiful. People were listening. Stories were being exchanged. A toddler offered me a biscuit she had already nibbled. I accepted.
It struck me that community is less about perfection than participation. It is not about finding the ideal group of like-minded souls with whom we share a curated lifestyle and taste in jazz. It is about choosing to be present,to stay at the table when the conversation meanders or someone forgets your name or the dog knocks over the hummus. Community is commitment, rather than convenience.
At its best, it is a communion,not necessarily in the liturgical sense, though I hold that dear,but in the deeper sense of common union. A shared life. A shared table. A willingness to both carry and be carried.
Of course, community is often uncomfortable. It rubs against our sharp edges and exposes our preferences. It insists we make room for those who do not vote like us, dress like us, or salt their potatoes properly. It asks us to forgive,not hypothetically, but actually. And worse, it asks us to receive forgiveness when we ourselves are the ones who’ve been clumsy or careless or late.
Yet I have come to believe that discomfort is not a failure of community,it is the furnace in which it is forged. Like iron sharpening iron, or awkward silences giving way to laughter, we become more human through the presence of others. Their otherness is not a threat to our identity, but an invitation to expand it.
Community, then, is not simply about getting our needs met. It is about discovering, rather startlingly, that we have something to give. A listening ear. A shared meal. A lift to the hospital. A story told at just the right moment. We find, again and again, that we are needed,and not because we are extraordinary, but because we are here.
It is no coincidence that the word “communion” has roots in nourishment. We need each other,not just for company, but for sustenance. For the steady rhythm of shared joys and borne sorrows. For the knowing glance across the room. For the quiet companionship of someone who’s seen you in your most ordinary hour and said, without fanfare, “I’m staying.”
In a culture that worships individualism and speed, community is a slow practice. It takes time, patience, and no small amount of tea. But it is also one of the last places where grace shows up unannounced. Where people gather not to impress, but to belong. Where love is not an emotion, but a habit.
So let us not wait for the perfect people or the perfect moment. Let us begin here,with mismatched chairs, borrowed time, and a shared pot of something warm. Let us build the table, widen the circle, and risk the awkward hello.
For in the communion of community, we remember what the world so often forgets:
We are not alone. We were never meant to be.
