We do not exist in a vacuum.
But you knew that right?
You emerged from a place.
You arrived in a place.
And you are, where you are, right now, here with me.
Maybe you read this in a café, alone with many.
Maybe you read this in your home, with many, never truly alone.
Maybe you read this while nursing. Never ever alone.
Maybe you read this alone in your house, lights out, tea steaming, middle of the night wondering what could possibly be made of your life when the sun rises.
When I floated the theme for Out of the Mouths of Babes: An Evening of Mothers Reading to Others, I had no idea how hard the topic would be. I asked women to write for my live event and for this blog series here on Laundry Line Divine on the topic of
the Village: Who else is here while you mother?
I addressed the question my self and began writing what seems rather tip-of-the-icebergish. I wrote on. I pondered. I have a running list of questions and topics that will easily keep me busy for a long while.
But it was hard to begin. And sad. And humbling. I remembered things I’d wished had stayed forgotten. I remembered people that I wish I hadn’t forgotten. And I begin to look at the world with new eyes.
Whenever a topic like this floats in to my life, a huge lens peers in to my world. I find myself in uninitiated conversations with surprising people, hearing them say things that answer questions I have not asked yet. The world around me starts serving me medicine, soul food-for-thought that urges my heart open a little wider, zooms my mind wider, and allows me to see how The Village is a concept and a desire, but also a standard that we let slip past us on our way to the bank. We step over ways of being for the sake of time and efficiency and avoid discomfort or eye contact and what do you know? Five years go by and you haven’t stopped over to see that friend who you know could use an in-person visit, but you are too darn busy with your life to manage that.
But you take chances, small chances and tiny steps which cause time to open up. My friend Julie Jordan-Scott describes this flowering of time in her post about synchronicity. She stepped up to granny-sit her toddler grandchild, endured the disassembling of her schedule and learned a new wonderful thing about the elasticity of time.
Being in a Village takes time. Being a solo-act is much quicker and more efficient. You don’t bake as many cookies because there are no drop-offs or love-notes or donations to the family with the flu down the street. I write all this not to admonish you. I write to admit it to you. I am as lousy a Villager as the worst among us. I do a lot. I do. But there are visits I haven’t gotten too. I find it enormously convenient that our home phone line is disabled so certain phone calls that might interrupt my evening don’t make it through. My Village is vivid and active, but after many years of being a vital part of my kid’s school community, I have stepped away from that neighborhood of my Village. I am relieved about that. Fewer pesky potlucks, picnics and food chains for families in need.
But, is that a good thing?
The scientific evidence in the past 10 years has mounted in favor of social interaction as an integral part of our health, happiness, and problem-solving capacity. Playing cards once a week with friends correlates with better health and longevity. Regular karaoke practice, too.
I turn to my colleagues to listen.
I invite a friend in for tea.
I receive a fresh blog post from Tania Pryputniewicz that speaks to the cohesion she and I experience as both of our hearts get torn in to so much confetti while we raise young women in to this brave new world.
I think the Village has less and less memory the more our villagers plug into global stuff versus local stuff. The more mobile people are, the less plugged into their own village they are.
What about you? Do you feel locally connected to a Village? Does Instagram know more about you than your brother? Is it easier to be friendly on Facebook, but you avoid eye contact with that person at the Big-Y?
Perhaps your Village has changed as your kids grow up? Maybe the elders have died. Maybe there is a vulnerable step ahead for you as you make new friends, set up a card game with new neighbors or invite someone to tea whom you haven’t spent time with before. I am so impressed with my online friend, Laurie Buchanan, who has relocated to a community states away from her home and how she is building her Village up again.
When I read the thread of comments on an OnBeing blog post covering the wickedly sad murders of three Muslim students in North Carolina this past week, I was struck by the vindictive things people said about where attention goes when hate crimes like this happen. A hate-crime like this draws our sympathy while there are thousands of crimes that occur daily, which rouse little sentiment in the wider Village of our world. I have been holding that story in my heart- three students dedicated to social change, to making a positive difference in the world, only to be brutally murdered by their neighbor. And yes, I am aware of the many murders that happen daily, if not in such detail, but I know that tragedy is a regular feature in this world.
In a comment on the another OnBeing post, Parker Palmer wrote this, which could be considered a prayer for a Village.
I’ve tried to develop the kind of X-ray vision that can see the invisible challenges so many people face — and then respond accordingly, from the heart.
We are in this Village together here.
Global and local.
The Village that includes my neighbor down the street whom I haven’t seen in-person for over four months.
And it includes the families of the Muslim students.
It also includes the gunman, the flamethrowers, the bombers and the high-jackers.
It includes the mothers of the Chibok girls, the families in Syria, Turkey, Afghanistan and Somalia.
What is your heart ready for?
On our tiny spin round this green globe, we get to have and hold a whole lot of love. We get to decide where our attention goes and who gets the best of us. We get to make a difference, no matter how tiny. We get to see that batch of ginger molasses cookies as setting in motion a tiny ripple that may one day reach Chibok or reach the sister you haven’t spoken to in fifteen years.
Who is in your Village?
What defines your Village?
What is missing in your Village that you have in great supply?
How might you offer yourself to the greater good, to be a vital part of your Village?
I am going to be pondering these things, like Mary, in the Bible verse I love so much, about “taking these things in to her heart and pondering them.” I am going to be baking. And making. And writing.
I am hosting an event this coming Sunday that expands my Village. This Sunday at No. Six Depot in West Stockbridge, from 2 PM- 4 PM, 13 women from my two writing workshops will be sharing new writing that they have worked on in the Powder Keg Sessions. If you find it hard to believe that 13 women writing from their own life experience could have an impact on anything grand, please read my friend Jan Phillips’ Huffington Post piece here.
Though I have no singular solution, I would travel days to sit at the common table with citizens invested in a different future. We could admit together what is not working: a patriarchy where women’s voices and authority are devalued. There’s a start.
I value women’s voices.
I welcome the difficulty of talking about the Village.
I willingly admit I could do better.
Beginning with this New Moon, which I learned ushers in the Year of the Sheep- an animal that can only move forward, I invite you– heck- consider this your permission slip to ponder your Village.
I hereby christen the Year of the Sheep on Laundry Line Divine as
the Year of Permission to Move Forward.
Tania’s post goes live here tomorrow.
More will arrive in the upcoming days from writers across the country.
If you want to join us for the March 7 live event, go here for details.
If you want to offer a blog post on this topic, here are the submission guidelines.
Leave me a comment.
Do you have a regular in-person Village life?
Thankful that you are here, at the Laundry Line,
This poem offers a question or two.