What Community Gives

And what it takes away

I’ve been pondering obligation this week. Is obligation meaningful? Is it necessary? When, or how, does obligation enhance our lives, and when does it drag us away from ourselves?

Earlier this week there was an op-ed in the New York Times that got me thinking along these lines (paywall removed if you want to read it). Written by author Brad Stulberg, the essay covered ground that is fairly well-worn at this point. Americans, Stulberg notes, are decreasingly involved in formal religion, which was where many folks historically experienced what it is to be embedded in an interconnected web of obligation and care. Now, we are more isolated from each other, and technology allows us to easily and quickly beg off of any commitment that seems like too much. The balance to all of our freedom from obligation, however, is that the majority of us are consistently and palpably lonely.

Stulberg argues that humans, like redwoods, which are shallow-rooted and so only can survive in a grove, truly thrive only in community. “Humans, too, need one another: We are stronger and more robust when enmeshed with others in community”, Stulberg writes. “But in our age of autonomy, efficiency, boundaries, and self-care, we too often deprioritize, if not overlook altogether, the wellspring of strength and meaning that comes from obligation.”

The meaning that comes from obligation is a more ephemeral quality, perhaps, but the strength is quantifiable. Stulberg points to research studies which show that consistent participation in a religious community increases life expectancy by over 30 percent. It’s not necessarily God, though, that confers this benefit, but the “socio-emotional” experience of feeling “obligated to show up regularly in a community setting.”

Based on my own experience, Stulberg is right about the palpable benefits that can come from being embedded in a community. When my ex-husband and I first moved to Ithaca, way back in 2001, we had no friends or even acquaintances. We only knew he wanted to be an organic farmer, so we went down to the local farmer’s market and started chatting up anyone who would give us the time of day. Probably we were a touch pathetic, but also young and attractive and earnest, which, in my experience, plays well in the realm of organic farmers.

Soon enough we got ourselves invited to Sunday dinner at a local farm. Beyond the small family that owned the farm who anchored the gathering, there was a whole community of folks that constellated around that hilly, gorgeous hundred acres in the northern foothills of the Appalachians. They gathered for a weekly potluck all year round, trading stories, knowledge, recipes, and laughter.

For the next 11 years, we were there nearly every Sunday. When we weren’t going to be there we had to let somebody know or they’d worry about us. The wife, Karma, grew and arranged all the flowers for our wedding. Their 5-year-old daughter, Rosie, picked and arranged my bouquet. Another friend from that community was my ex-husband’s best man. Or woman, technically.

I spent a good chunk of the day I was in labor with my son at the farm, swearing to god that I wasn’t actually having a baby just yet. When we finally went home, Karma came as well and stood there while I pushed and screamed, her hands on my ex-husband’s shoulders while his hands were on me. Except when she was reaching over to wipe the tears and snot off his face because he refused to let go of me long enough to do it himself. After Otto was born, Karma went downstairs, cleaned my kitchen floor from where my water had broken everywhere, then made me the most delicious omelet I think I’ve ever tasted. There was ground venison involved, what seemed like a half a pound of cheese, and an entire stick of butter. Like I said, delicious.

Over the years, Karma and her husband Michael counseled us in our marriage, gave us free food, gifted us with our first chickens, and loved our children. When we split up but were still technically sharing the house, I stayed at the farm when my ex was at our house with the kids. Another Sunday regular and his wife came out when I called and bought my meat rabbits when my ex stopped direct deposit of his paycheck into our joint account and I swiftly had to find the money to dismantle my homestead projects and move out.

I’m sure there were things that small community got from us over the years, but I know for sure what we got from them, which was everything that made our life feel grounded and meaningful.

Not their farm, but ours. It was a beautiful spot.

As is often the case when relationships end, the friends got divvied up and my ex got Sunday dinner. It felt bitter then, but not so much anymore. I never fit in very well as a farm wife, honestly, and the anger which consumed me after everything imploded didn’t fit well in all of that upbeat wholesomeness. As well, my ex was never particularly good at making friends, so maybe it was better for him to keep all of them.

In lieu of Sunday dinner, I started taking my kids with me to Quaker Meeting. The local Quakers enfolded us as lovingly as the Sunday dinner crew had, while also letting me be the mess that I most assuredly was in those days. It took years, but nestled in their embrace I slowly but surely got myself together and was able to reciprocate their love and care.

After nearly ten years, though, the pandemic killed my observance habit, unfortunately. As I know it did for lots of people. I could go back now, but I just haven’t been able to manage it. Having fallen out of the web of obligation and care, I don’t know quite how to climb back in, or even if that’s the web I want to be snared in at this point of my life. Just like in those early days after my marriage imploded I feel like I don’t have much extra to offer, that I am struggling to just stay on top of the basics, and I find myself recoiling from the thought of more responsibility.

Obligation, for me, is often like exercise or cleaning my house. If I think too much about it beforehand all I feel is dread, even though I know I’ll feel better once it’s done. However, the truth is that my life is better when I’m embedded in a community, whether it’s a friend group, creative cohort, or religion. The best communities, the communities that I have been lucky enough to be a part of over the course of my life, are comprised of people who show up with and for each other in so many different ways— emotionally, spiritually, and physically. The confidence that you don’t have to go it alone is a gift conferred on those that do the work to show up, which, though not as quantifiable as life expectancy, is equally priceless.

There are parts of ourselves we can only experience through intimate relationships with other people, whether lovers, friends, or family. There are also parts of ourselves, in my experience, that we can only encounter through existing as part of a community. The push and pull between our individual needs and the needs of the group, the power of group identification, and the joy of feeling held in a interconnected web of care. Even when community goes wrong, the heartbreak of exile and the exhilaration of breaking free are powerful, transformative experiences.

Being part of a community can be difficult, and even traumatic, it’s true. Stulberg’s essay ignores entirely the reality of religious trauma, which is the counterbalance to all the palpable benefits. He also only glosses over the reality that many of us are too busy simply surviving, with multiple jobs that still yield few resources, to find the emotional energy to participate in community. As well, for all that religion in America has historically provided networks of care, it has also cemented gender norms and ideas of service that leave women in particular with the short end of the stick.

Stulberg is right when he points out that it is consistent commitment that engenders the benefits of community, not necessarily religious observance. But religion also provides a structured container to hold and focus the disparate personalities that make up a community. As adults it can be hard to find a similarly strong container in the secular world that allows us to both be ourselves and be present enough with others to really see each other. We can take classes, participate in teams, or create book clubs, but few of those activities cement us in community for the long haul. Nor are they predicated, necessarily, on bringing a sense of meaning or significance to our lives.

It is also true that some seasons of our lives aren’t for community. We need to be solitary at times, or to draw the circle of care very tightly around ourselves, only allowing a select few inside. But when considered over the course of an entire life, I suspect that Stulberg is also correct, that “the communities and people to whom we commit ourselves play a central role in what gives our lives joy and meaning.”

In addition, they provide the proving ground for our integrity practice. Participating as part of a whole outside of ourselves, we are challenged to ground into the wholeness inside ourselves. It is a balancing act and a dance— the catching and falling, the spiraling in and reaching out.

Photo by Hillary Ungson on Unsplash

So, how do we approach community now, post-pandemic (and post-religion for many of us), with full consciousness of the power and perils that come from participation? Perhaps this moment is an opportunity to enter into community with more intention and willingness to speak up when group affiliation challenges our integrity. But even before we get to that point, maybe our challenge is to think deeply about what we need from community, what we get, and what we’re willing to give in order to create the communities that can sustain us.

What about you? What communities are you a part of these days? What do you get from them and what do you give? If you’re not part of a community, do you want to be? What kind of community are you looking for?