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It was summer 2023, and our yard was a small disaster. Our household is four adults, two new babies, one 7-year-old, and a dog that we could no longer see when we let him out in the yard amongst the overgrown invasive trees, unchecked for years. I did not want to ask for help, again.
But when the vines started climbing the walls of the house, we sent the email. Help! Yard day!
Then there came a bad-air warning because of forest fires in Canada, rain from a hurricane heading up the coast, and a COVID spike. I wanted to cancel. But it turns out you can’t cancel needing help.
So we let the people come, in the rain, with our masks. We yanked up roots, protected native milkweed, and disentangled vines from grapes and roses planted long ago. The yard was cared for—and so were we.
As Unitarian Universalists, we put interdependence at the center of our lives. Interdependence means sometimes we need to be loved on, and sometimes we love on others. It means that sometimes we are leaned on, and sometimes we lean on others. Some call it communal care. Or just being human. It’s how we show up and let others show up to express this truth: we do not go it alone, and we do not let our people go it alone.
"Interdependence means sometimes we need to be loved on, and sometimes we love on others. It means that sometimes we are leaned on, and sometimes we lean on others."
Like so many other spiritual practices, this one is a paradox too: the giving is also a gift to myself. In these acts of care, the brokenness of the world is remade on a scale I can get my heart (and my calendar) around. I can rail against the lack of free universal childcare—and give a fellow parent a free hour right now. I can fight for freedom for all from cages—and give someone getting out of jail a ride right now. I can mourn the lack of accessible healthcare for all—and get a neighbor to their appointment today.
Communal care is a lot of work.
Many of us feel like we can barely meet our own needs, let alone help another out.
It takes connection and intention to build the relationships that allow others to let us know their needs and to be willing to share ours.
It takes infrastructure—even if it’s just a shared Google doc, an email, or knowing one another’s phone numbers.
It takes spiritual muscle to not default to trying to go it alone, and to risk saying yes when it feels unfamiliar to lend our guest room to a stranger, or overwhelming to watch someone else’s kid.
We and our yard need a lot more love. And we have a lot more to give. We’re here, leaning on and being leaned on, uprooting that invasive vine of independence, planting interdependence, letting communal care grow.