community.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.

Community.  And not the TV show.

It seems like it was always easy to find a community to be a part of in college.  I lived in the International House, one level of a dormitory which housed people from all over the world, where we were to be immersed in all the world's cultures.  It was great fun on many occasions, but other times?  Not so much.  There were quite a few quarrels and heated debates, and we soon discovered differences in public bathroom etiquette.  I remember waking up to signs in the bathroom one morning that the shower stalls are not where we pee in the US.  We use toilets here. 

And then I participated in a French meetup group after my last return from France.  I wanted to keep my French current and continue to practice the language outside of France.  It was fun for a while, but there were several times a friend and I had to leave when 15 minutes into the meeting we realized it was a Pick Up Chicks spot.

There was another time after first being diagnosed with a mental illness that I joined a support group and went to weekly (or more) meetings.  I did it for a while and felt like I was involved in something very important, but after some time had passed, I realized it was bringing me down.  The people I met with each week were very nice folks, but I realized that I didn't want to live my illness, nor be my illness.  I was much more than that.

I tried my hand at a staff art show, still one of the most nerve-wracking things I have ever done in my life.  It was great excitement as the hype began to build and we started the installation of everyone's pieces.  I volunteered as the 'beer girl' on opening night and was amazed to see all the crowds.  We all walked around and got to discover an element of each coworker's personality that we may have not noticed before.  The show ran for a few weeks and was quite a success.  It was a great experience, but when I look at my artwork I've completed to date, I don't think I would be so comfortable showing it at this time.  My artwork makes me feel like an outsider.

I have friends who make their living writing.  Some went into journalism, some PR, others freelance.  While I have always enjoyed writing, I have not made it my community.  Take this blog, for example.  I write this more as a message in a bottle sort of way, floating while I try to organize my thoughts after a messy number of years struggling with mind stuff.  I don't workshop my stories nor do I enjoy the promotion side of things.  I write and make my art as my therapy.  If there are sinister, vulture-type people out there who prey upon my frankness on this, well, j'éspere que cette vérité makes them open their eyes a little bit about the intent of their curiosity.

So back to that word again...community.  I am trying very hard to not be that loner outsider all the time.  As time goes on and wounds heal, I feel more and more confident to dive back into the important interests and passions that fuel me.  Whether that be volunteering somewhere again or getting more involved in my new neighborhood, or taking a class, or locating new 'artistic' peers, or, or, or...well, the ideas just start to soar when I think about it.