I’m still trying to figure out how to be in community, and even what community means.

Family is a kind of community, but we’re scattered, and our ties are in some part matters of stories we tell (not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’d just like to know everyone personally) and the histories we’re too scared to pursue.

I’m on my tentative way to finding an ethnic community here in this new place, but if I get too sure and it doesn’t work, I will be devastated, so I’ll not become that invested just yet.

Friends are a community one builds for oneself, but I’m finding that there are some lines of privilege and between experience you just can’t will away. That should be a good thing, forging lines of our own across those should be a good part of the friendship narrative, but I’ve often been in situations where those lines become wires thrown back across my heart. And, just as friendship circles are easy to construct, they can easily implode.

Sometimes I think that community is an ideal to strive for but never achieve. Maybe not for everyone, but for me at least: I’m too different, and my history is too different, to ever find a place of belonging. There are kinds of belonging I’m glad I didn’t pursue, but, now that they are out of my reach with the years, I’m finding happier roads to be cut off.

And sometimes I think that community must just be a place in my head and a feeling in my heart, an imagined bright place full of voices and closeness and consideration, dually modelled on the places that should have been that for me and the cries of my soul. It must be a happy internal place to go to when I’m feeling isolated. An amalgamation of things that almost were and things that should have been.