It's cold and that surprises me.
Dealing with the heat has always been a constant distraction every single time I've travelled to Thailand. But this time it's January and I'm way up in the mountains for a New Year's visit to Suradet's home village. The demanding drive and mountain air and utter novelty of being here have left me spent but surprisingly content to simply sit and warm myself by the fire.
Every yard has one, and a big black pot of water for tea. I'm asked if I want some and, not exactly sure what I'll be getting, I say yes anyways. The young woman who asked me now looks around for a cup. She can't find a clean one so she simply throws away the leftover tea from the cup of the man who just now left our circle, swirls some hot water around in it, and fills it up to offer to me.
This keeps happening. The coming and going of people around our fire, and the sharing of a common cup. Anyone who strolls past is known, and called by name, and invited to sit for a bit. And everyone does, at least for a little bit. I'm told later that there are more visitors tonight than usual. They've come by to see for themselves that a farang woman has actually come all the way up to their village. I'm only the second or third white person who's done that in, oh, nobody can remember how long, and the first white woman.
There's casual chit chat, and a unhurried way about it. A cup is swished out and offered for tea. And then the visitor says thanks to everyone and moves along. And somehow, I am welcomed into all of this. I sit warmed by more than just the fire. There's a quiet wonder in these moments.
One visitor is more curious and perhaps a little more bold than the others. I am asked about Canada. Is there snow? Does the government pay for school? For doctors? How big is my house? As I answer these questions the responses indicate a certain amount of awe, or even envy. The bold one says he wants to come to Canada.
I smile and invite him - the only appropriately polite response to give - but also feel the need to make another comparison.
On my street, I say, there are no campfires. Mostly people stay in their houses or in their own fenced in yards. And mostly we don't even know each other, not on our street anyways. There's a pause.
And then I am asked: But what about church?
This is a predominately Christian village. The church building is a central focus, and there are prayers every morning and every evening. On Sundays almost everyone shows up for service. And everyone walks there. Probably there are about a hundred people in the village. The village is the church. So, how can you not know your neighbours?
I try to explain. There are a lot of churches in my village, I say. We don't usually go to the church closest to our houses. We drive there. From all over. As I say it and even before it's translated I realize how crazy-foreign it must sound to these community-centric people.
And yes. There are audible sounds of polite confusion.
I have preached likely hundreds of sermons on community. And suddenly, in this moment, I realize I actually know nothing. I know nothing of the bonds of common survival; of the interdependence that requires I share and receive in ways utterly reciprocal. I know nothing of an evening spent wandering the dirt pathways between homes and campfires, with nothing more important to do than spend time huddled around a big black pot of tea meant for sharing.
Where on earth did any human being ever get the idea that independence was a desired thing?
Fast forward almost four years to when a microscopic menace keeps us separated and un-huddled. I am decidedly in Canada. Now, even the once-a-week-drive-to community touch points are strained. We're in our houses even more. And no amount of swishing would make it anywhere near safe to share a cup. We can't even share the air we breathe.
Except maybe now I feel my need more correctly. The bonds of common survival are strengthening from the stretching stress of separation. The ways I need you and am needed by you are more clear to me. And suddenly 'porch picnics' and other physically distanced ways of sitting unhurried together on warmer days are amazing and relished. And, in anticipation of the colder Canadian weather, that priority of presence over productivity remains, even when we have to do it over the phone or online.
I'm warmed and this surprises me.
The fire of our fierce determination to be community for one another, in any culture and any crisis, provides a circle in which I can belong. I need this - I need you so much!
Can we huddle together this winter? Can we huddle AND radiate that warmth outward at the same time, like a mountain village community, always welcome in each other's space? Can we draw in and draw strength from one another, even as we keep looking outward for anyone who needs to come close to the fire too.
Can we huddle in a radiating kind of way?
I hope so.
We'd better.
We're going to need it.
Desperately.
I do.
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