One Pumpkin Rav

Some table talk happened about community

Conversation tightened towards the end of the pumpkin ravioli dinner. A rich fall meal my husband built from scratch because he felt like trying something new. It worked because if you know him of course it did. The other three of us were just lucky to be there.

Myself, I am a shoo-in for such events because I was smart enough to put a ring on him 24 years ago. One of two friends joining us I have known even longer. She is a remarkable artist from Vashon Island who has been cultivating community rituals in which a flower of life is collectively drawn on public crossroads with intention and joy. She also makes visual provocations from found objects in her shattered greenhouse studio. This particular night, she made the four of us rich for the way she snacks that last roast beetroot and belts the next belly laugh over her glorious curly red beard.

Our fourth at this table was a home schooled back country boy genius (erm, young man, man, sparkling man) who knows rocks, herbs, distillates, and how to nail practical exams in his nursing program, plus a few more secretive things. He and she hit it off along with all of our dogs, three in all, who were barking it up, sniffing about, and romping together with tails wagging hard. Common themes of crafting lives without much need for buttons and screens poured between them in a getting to know you way. The husband and I sat host. The dinner was a delight.

As glassfuls from the last bottle of a sparkly white summer favorite drained to final sips, the conversation deepened to a tone that felt like some hole had opened before the four of us. We had a party of generous creation swirling that night. Attention turned to its contrast. To the shadows cast by the bright lights of any gathering. We asked ourselves how and why is it that so many we know feel lonely? Not lonely for not being at this one small dinner party, but lonely in a more pervasive way that makes people stab at buttons and screens and more tender things. In ways that lead us to bad decisions that hurt ourselves and others. In ways that lead us to salve our nerves with liquid courage and with the stronger tinctures found in needles, cartridges, and pills. Things that can lead us to more final things.

As this topic developed, the four of us each seemed to find our own pathway forward towards the importance of story telling as a response to the lonely late night pains every one of us sometimes knows. Not just the stories we had been telling over the table that night but the whole notion of story telling around tables and fires as the ancient way to weave meaning out of life and wrestle down the loneliness we all know is waiting for us in the shadows whether we talk of it or not.

My fellow Old Trucker Joel recently wrote fragrantly about how community works in practice. I recently wrote about ways society used to come together to tell the stories of our lives. How my father treasured this experience. How society framed such events around regular rituals as elaborate as ancient poetics and as simple as a cup of coffee. All of these just excuses, really, to gather for a while. To share some small talk. To remind each other to watch our weight or watch the game or figure out how to help that kid. To let out a wise comment or wise crack or two. To remind ourselves we are human beings who have been gathering up around the camp fire for a very, very long time. For hundreds of thousands of years.

My cold metal laptop spends a lot time in my lap. I sometimes notice the cold in its metal as I grab it, particularly if it has been near a wall during winter. Montana can drop below zero for weeks on end. I can feel how no hands have held it since the last time I lifted it into my lap or onto the table. Usually the same table that held our pumpkin ravs three nights ago. When I sit there like I am sitting right now, warming its keys with keystrokes, some words come faster and others way too slow for any deadline. Much of the writing is just a record of the echoes in my mind. Still, other times I wonder how those who find their way to reading any of this are sitting with it when they do. Is there a connection between my story and their own for that one day? Were we in the same room for some reason might they offer me some coffee and a wise comment or crack of their own? I like to think so. I also hope they might start wondering how they could invite someone else over, or maybe several someones. How finding their own way to some regular club might offer a richer sense of connection in their life. Allow them to seek warmth from handshakes more than from images flicking endlessly across a laptop or mobile screen of their own.

Apropos all this I am remembering a group I know that has been holding an open invite public coffee hour every Saturday for over thirty years, in Portland. Years ago somebody called some friends and just showed up at a coffee place one day. Then they did it the next week and the next. Each week a few friends invited a few friends. There are now thirty to fifty who consider themselves regulars and the event has long become known as a vibrant crossroad for any in the community passing through. Because someone once showed up and kept showing up with a smile and an invite.

There was exactly one pumpkin ravioli left when our long table talk was done. It was hiding in the kitchen, only slightly dry from its lonely wait. I brought it back to the table, staged on the formerly heaped serving dish still slathered with buttery herbal goodness across its flowered ceramic bottom. She snagged it deftly, swirled it through the butter and popped it in her face with a “hell, yes” grin. The whole room glowed.