Community

I live in a very small community within the larger city. 2 years ago, my husband  & I lost our home and came to live in what is referred to as the "art district." Most days, it's fairly quiet--just like any other community. But there are nights when this area is hoppin', with activities in both large galleries and the coffee shop, or times when all of the areas that make up the community engage in becoming one large activity center, where people can wander through. I love those days, though usually I'm too busy with the set-up & tear-down to actually enjoy the events.

My favorite times, the ones when I feel the warmest, that "love my village" atmosphere, are much quieter. It's a Saturday Open Mic run by Brash Rebel. It's looking around a crowded room and realizing I know everyone in it. It's walking in to find my husband sitting with his writing group around him, the proprietor of the coffeeshop's (and dear friend's) child on his lap; Mr. J of F.Art in the corner sharing his latest work in a very tangible way.  It's holding my breath as Dee rides the double-decker bike around that he put together himself. It's crossing the parking lot and being asked by a random stranger for help retrieving a cell phone from a locked building, and knowing where to direct the guy so that the building will be opened. It's opening my apartment window and hearing an impromtu drum circle on a Tuesday afternoon. It's knowing that my child can play on the porch and be watched over so she stays safe, because I know everyone in the immediate area. It's looking around, hearing music, watching friends, and realizing that I'm in this amazing bubble of united experience.

This, to me, is community. Not everyone is the same. There isn't harmony all the time. We are artists. This one gets angry at that one, the other feels her toes have been stepped on, another may feel persecuted at times and there are fights, both real and imagined. There are unsigned, passive aggressive notes. There are tears, shrieks and walk-outs. But that is the small stuff. We still manage to pull it together to pull off a fantastic Second Sunday experience, or a Fairy Festival, or even just a good Friday night moving-a-cooler experience.

And sometimes the bad, helps you find the good. The unappreciated employee gains the confidence to work more on being her own boss. The writer whose tendency to recuse himself from big events finds himself in a crowded room for people watching, and uses that in a story. The artist moved from her premises turns it into a learning experience and creative drive to find the light.

Not only that, but  in a community you learn the small idiosyncrasies that make people tick. You can see when your neighbor is stressed, because you recognize that walk. You learn the tells of people you're not even close to, because you are around them socially enough. You learn when to ask what's wrong, and when there is something to spill.

But for me, the best part of living in a community is the diversity. The Jewish woman who tells the wonderful stories. The Muslim married couple sharing their art and love and passionate voices. The Wiccans, the atheists, the Catholics, the myriad of Protestants, and those who wonder what it's all about--they don't set aside their differences, but celebrate them. They share with the world what their culture, or their upbringing, or their religion, or their beliefs, are. They don't ask to change yours.

There is no homogeneity here. There is only community.