When I was 20, I wasn’t in the best headspace. I was struggling with my mental health and just didn’t have a lot of inspiration or hope for the future. And so all of this led me to take what I like to call a “left turn” in my life and show up one morning at a Quaker meeting in Topsham, Maine. I was alone, quite a bit younger than everyone else there, and I didn’t know what to expect. For anyone who hasn’t been to a Quaker meeting, here’s how it typically goes: you sit there in a circle in silent reflection unless you are “moved by the spirit” to speak. If you do speak, it’s thought of as the divine speaking through you because the divine is thought to be in everyone and everything.

“The divine” is a pretty high standard, so at most meetings, one or two people would share over the course of an hour. This left a lot of time to reflect, to listen to the collective breath, to watch sunbeams and ants on the floor, and to stare at peoples’ shoes– which I did a lot of– and wonder where they had taken them. Over the months, I watched ninety-year-old women rocking in their chairs with their eyes closed, thinking and hoping and praying and sometimes even crying. And I found myself thinking of the children they once were– that all of us in that circle once were. That we were all imperfect humans of inherent value who had loved and lost and lived. It was really empathy-building.

I got to this point where if someone in the circle inhaled sharply as if they were about to speak, I couldn’t wait to hear what they might say because I’d gotten in this headspace where I truly felt that anyone, simply because they were here, could have precisely the wisdom that I needed– or that the world needed– to move forward. This is the mindset I strive for in my community work to this day: that all of us, simply because we are here, have something to contribute. 

Intergenerational spaces like this, particularly ones that encourage vulnerability, are extremely rare in our society. But my time going to Quaker meeting made me wonder what other spaces create intentional structures of care across generations. It piqued my interest in seeking out intergenerational community and played a role in my decision to move to Millinocket to work in a public library.

When I started at the library, I was probably worried that I didn’t know enough about books. I still worry about that, actually. But pretty quickly, it became clear we were actually in the business of dot-connecting. Working at the library often feels like living in this land of serendipity; someone will come in with a question, and an hour ago, you will have just happened to hear of a resource that is precisely what they’re looking for. Closing those triangles is a great feeling; it brings me a lot of joy and fulfillment to do this work, connecting people to resources, information, and each other. But quite often, I witness this happening organically because the conditions of the space facilitate it. I see teens helping older adults log into the computers, neighbors running into neighbors they haven’t seen in a decade and inviting them over for dinner, or new parents finding other parents to form a playgroup.

I imagine each of these connections as a thread. The more threads, the tighter the social fabric– the tapestry of place– and the less likely that someone will fall through the cracks. That is the power of a social infrastructure, whether it’s a library or a skate park, a church or recovery center, a mutual aid network or a plaza, an Elks Lodge or a community garden. Though it’s less obvious than other forms of infrastructure, I believe that our social infrastructure is just as real and essential to the strength of our communities. Because these are the spaces and places where we can be vulnerable, ask for and receive help, be informed, be present, be in conversation with our neighbors and communities. The spaces that foster both belonging and a sense of citizenship that is defined more by responsibilities than by rights. It’s a very un-American idea (and I love it).

When I look at our social fabric today, I don’t see a tapestry. I see the tatters of a fading civic life, and tethers. I say “tethers” because I think we’ve grown so insular with our care and attention. COVID certainly didn’t help with that, asking us to draw narrow boundaries around who our people were, and who they weren’t, by default. As a society, so many of us have tethered our sense of self-worth and our expression of care and attention to our capital “F” Families or partners and to our second love: our work, which excludes people who don’t have those things, and leaves all of us starved for community and connection.

But I imagine something different is possible. I know it is. I imagine vibrant public spaces where people of all ages can learn to really see each other and show up for each other. I’m not talking about just being “nice” to our neighbors. That’s great, but I’m talking about creating spaces for collective care and interdependence that actually restructure power.

So as you go back to your community, I invite you to form a thread or weave two together, close a triangle, to build or strengthen an unlikely relationship. Reach out and offer something, even if it’s just your full attention. Reach out and ask for help; you may be surprised how many kind Quaker elders are waiting in the wings to catch you. And please tell your towns to fund their libraries and parks.