By Butch Freedman
I grew up in a big city (Philadelphia) and spent most of my life as an urban dweller. And, for the most part, I enjoyed city life, even with its dirt and distractions. I even liked the edge of danger and unexpected encounters that the various cities surprised you with. And then there was the culture, the restaurants, the diversity (oops, is that a bad word now?) But, in my later years, I grew weary of all that noise. I wanted something else out of my day-to-day existence. I wanted peace and quiet (a symptom of old age perhaps), but what I didn’t quite realize is that what I truly wanted was a sense of community. And I found it.
Now I’m not saying that community is impossible in Portland or Seattle or New York City. Of course it is, but I do think it’s harder to find and even harder to maintain. In my experience the only way to find my people was to whittle down the larger community. I couldn’t feel connected to all of Portland; I rarely even felt a part of the local neighborhoods I lived in. Sometimes I didn’t even know my next-door neighbors other than to wave at. I did find a sense of bonding, togetherness, shared experiences through my synagogue and through my places of work. I suspect that’s the way most city folk do find their communities—work and places of mutual belief. But those places can be limiting.
I finally found what I was looking for and what I needed in the small coastal town where Bev and I have lived for the last 11 years. It’s a close-knit place, only about 125 full-time residents, a beautiful location nestled up against the ever-changing and majestic Pacific. That alone is healing. But what really has opened my eyes is the sense of connectedness to my neighbors, to my community. It’s rare that I don’t have a least a couple conversations with neighbors on my daily walks. It might only be small-talk, but I’m down with that. I mean who doesn’t like talking about the weather, or baseball, or when the next storm will arrive, and who’s sick and might need some help. As a community, we have monthly potlucks, and yoga classes, tai-chi, a volunteer fire company. I lead a writing group. Every activity is open to all. Even those who don’t buy into the community ethos. We do have our hermits and introverts, who like hanging out by themselves, and more power to them. In a different imagining I could also go that route.
What does community mean? It’s simple really. Community equals human connection. I won’t cite all the studies that draw a parallel between socialization and longevity, but they exist. We’re communal creatures. That’s how we’ve survived for this long. And, I’m worried, that when that sense of togetherness fades, as it appears to be doing in the wider world, and in our country, I think all of us are in great danger of losing hold of our shared humanity.
And a warning: As pleasant as living in a small, friendly community is, we cannot allow ourselves to become complacent about the rest of the country and world. It’s tempting I know. Who wants to spend every day fretting about the latest Trump outrages, and how the country moves every day toward total chaos and totalitarianism. But we can’t turn aside. I’ve heard and read many stories of the Jews in pre-war Germany and Austria and France who were sure it couldn’t happen to them. They were too comfortable, too well established. But the hate kept spreading and more and more scapegoats were needed; these good and righteous citizens sense of ease and well-being was shattered, lives lost. It CAN happen here. Look at what Ice has done in Minneapolis. Really look.
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