Layers of Community

A friend blogged yesterday about pain. I thought it insightful since I have been going through similar painful experiences and have been reluctant to write.

No.

Reluctant is the wrong word.

 I wanted to write. I have actually sat in front of a blank screen for days now wanting to write on community, but not being able to push beyond my aching loneliness to pen a piece. Passenger's Let Her Go keeps playing through my head (and for some reason Cyrus' Wrecking Ball - don't judge me. Who wouldn't be upset over a breakup with ANY of the Hemsworth brothers?!)  It is a premise I am all too familiar with. We do not appreciate what we have in the moment, but when it is gone we realize the value it brought to us. I have moved a lot in life. Every place I ever lived had perks and value of some sort. It is hard to focus on those things in the present. We tend to reminisce about what we had, or dream about what we want, yet rarely treasure what we have. I changed that a few years ago and much more aggressively in the last year. A mentor suggested I read Ann Voskamp's 1000 Gifts. It changed how I viewed and engaged my life. I started to keep a list of all the things I experienced each day that brought value to my life. After a while it became such a regular practice that I actually looked for these joyous, unexpected encounters. It is a good practice. Not only have I lived or am I going to live - I am living.

Today I am acutely aware that I am living. My sinuses are in extreme revolt against this reality and are trying to kill me. It is rare that you will see me take a day off of work due to illness. I typically feel that because I am miserable everyone else should also be subject to my abject existence. I wish I had someone to blame for my illness but, alas, it is entirely my fault. I cried too much, overloaded my sinuses with gooey goop, and have now traded my emotional expression for mucous membrane expression. The whole mind/soul/body connection can be messy. Amidst all this misery I can still be grateful for what I have - health insurance, doctors, antibiotics, tissues, chicken noodle soup, fluffy pillows, kids in school, and silence.

Why was I crying? Community. I miss it. More specifically, I miss what I had. There are levels and dimensions of community. It is not just one large mass of humanity. There is geographic community, church community, social community, family community, intimate community. No single community is designed to support the full weight of all our needs. They each serve a purpose and meet a need. Like rings of a tree, the layers of community mark the investments we have made in life. Each layer adds strength to who we are, mitigating and buffering what losses we may suffer. This move was particularly difficult for me and different from any other because I lost it all. Each move has always entailed a transition in one part or another, but not all at once. This one changed it all. My geography changed. My church changed. My friends changed. My family changed. My relationships changed. It has been overwhelming. I lived in Denver, CO for 9 years. Next to Brazil, that is the longest I have lived anywhere. My roots were deep. And if you have ever tried to move a tree, you know that the longer it has grown the more impossible the task becomes. (Great. Now I have The Head and the Heart's Cats and Dogs stuck in my head.)

An image of a chopped down tree in my backyard from several years ago repeatedly comes to mind. The tree had been poorly trained and a mixture of snow, hail, and lightening had taken its toll as well. I took the tree apart limb by limb. It was a gruesome task. When it was done, a pathetic stump sat there surrounded by the carnage of her flourishing years. This is how I feel - like that pathetic tree stump, embedded with years, rings, layers, dimensions of community, stripped and bare. A stump, however, is an odd thing. It is not dead. In fact, as I would soon find out, it takes a whole lot of effort to kill a stump. It may look lonesome and naked, but it is most definitely not dead. Saplings gradually peek out from the layers and cracks between the rings.  Moss forms and cloaks the rugged gashes. Growth is not impossible, only gradual.  In the meantime the tree can still produce new life, bear the weight of weary travelers and nourish the wildlife. I imagine that tree stump could reminisce of the glory days, or dream of the grandness it wants to attain. Those efforts would be poorly spent if it is all done in neglect of present tasks.

It is appropriate to grieve loss. My heart is completely crushed by the weight of that loss. I am alone and  exposed. Yet, that does not mean I have nothing to give until my rings expand and grow once again. I have my intermittent tasks to sprout life and to support others. (I imagine I can grow moss too, since I seem to be producing copious amounts of green gunk at the moment). It will be gradual. It will take time. And I will be strong again. Also, less delirious. I will be more coherent in the future too. But this post is not really about coherence. It is about getting the pain out and down in writing so I can focus on other more important things - my life as it is happening right now. So while I wait on the layers of community to form once again I will focus on what I do have instead of on what I do not.