Divining for the source

I have been thinking a lot about community lately.  What is it? Where does one find it? Can you take it with you (ie. when you move out of town, or go away on vacation)? I had always thought  "community" to mean a group of people who live in one's immediate locality, as in a neighborhood.  The word, of course, has extended references to cyberspace (as in, on-line-community) as well as to  groups with a common interest or affiliation (ie. a community of writers or artists). These are all based on either physical or intellectual proximity. But it isn't any of these communities that interests me. The type of community I've been thinking deeply about is much more difficult to discern. Sometimes it exists within a larger, more traditionally identifiable environment,  but it is never limited by constraints of space, or even of time.

 For the past 5 years, I have been an active member of my local community garden.  Our garden is not unlike any other organization, in that it is made up of a fairly large group of individuals, who do not always get along, or agree with one another. Some just right out dislike each other.  Disagreements often arise around issues of whether there are not enough trees (too much sun makes it difficult to find places to relax or read a book), or too many trees (too much shade limits the growth of the vegetables and flowers)...Some believe in ridding the garden of furnishings made from plastics and other non-organic materials, while others rally for more durable and cost efficient tools.  More often than not, these differences of opinion are not prompted by questions of practicality versus aesthetics (function versus form) but are tainted by personal preferences and personality differences.  It is not a perfect world--whatever that means--and yet, it is perfectly imperfect.  If it takes a village to raise a child, some might say that it takes all types of people to grow a garden. And indeed, there are some things on which, I think it is safe to say, all members agree--  Our garden is a beautiful place.  It is a natural sanctuary.  It is a much needed haven in the midst of a very urban environment.  It is lovingly cared for.  It is in great need of a reliable, independent water source.  

Since well before I had even heard the name of my Brooklyn neighborhood uttered by anyone, the garden existed. Out of the rubble of several homes leveled ages ago to accommodate the development of our only  subway line, its founding members had lovingly brought it into being. Long ago (also way before my time),  a request for running water had been made to the NYC Dept. of Parks and Recreation. The lack of responsiveness from city officials, did not deter the progress and success of our little oasis. Well aware of the usual inexpedient manner with which government agencies respond to civilian requests, garden members have patiently found ways to water the greenery. A couple of neighbors have for many years, allowed the water to be routed from their own backyards, clever contraptions for collecting and recycling rainwater from their roofs have been devised and many a watering can has been filled and refilled from the pickle barrels put to use for storing the precious resource. One unexpected day, however, our world would be turned on its head and the NYC Parks Dept. deities would entertain themselves by showing up unannounced, to give us water.  Contractors arrived on a particular Wednesday morning, and did what they needed to do.

That is-- they took out a 12 foot length of the 7 foot high iron fence which surrounds the garden, replacing it with the cautionary orange lattice tape used to demarcate construction areas.  Later that evening,  a high official (who also happens to be a neighborhood resident), stopped by to inform us of the areas that would need to be destroyed, in order to accommodate the long awaited water source. These areas included the beautiful rock perennial garden and strawberry patch, as well as several small trees and many flowering bushes. The garden would be officially closed to the public and declared a construction site. Cries of outrage and frustration ensued as those present began to take in the scope of what was to come.  Quickly we began to  realize  that there was little to be done and that immediate action must be taken to minimize the outcome of the imminent damage. The demolition of a significant portion of the garden, we came to realize, was a necessary evil that must be accepted for the sake of the greater good. The greater good... now THAT is a concept of great interest to me. Most of the friends I have made in my neighborhood, I have met at the garden. Still, there are many members with whom I have little in common, except for this green knot that binds us. That is the one thing that I find most profound about my experience as a member of this particular community. The moment we realized that something must be done, the few of us who happened to be on site, without question or hesitation, pulled out the member roster and our cell phones and began to call every member. It was early evening, the inconvenient time when most are sitting at dinner or just arriving from a long day of work. Yet, within the hour, there arrived a sizable number to help dig up whatever could be saved. By nightfall, the entire area had been dismantled and much of the plants temporarily relocated. All differences were put aside. Members who generally prefer to ignore each other, working closely to complete the task at hand. For work toward a common love, belief or goal, binds stronger than any similarity of character, culture or race. 

A short while ago, I went through great efforts to convince my employer to hire a woman I barely knew, because what I did know was that she was miserably employed in a job she hated.  A short time later she overstepped the boundaries, and after I called her on it, she no longer talks to me. We work in close proximity and in similar capacities, but the meaning of our work is different for each of us. There is no binding force. It saddens me that loyalty can be so fickle.
One week ago, a young Hasidic boy was killed only a few blocks from where I live. The child lost his way and asked a recognizably Jewish passerby for help. He died at the brutal hands of someone he recognized as a member of his own religion and therefore had thought to be trustworthy. These are heart wrenching lessons which I find completely unfathomable.  Neither locality, profession or religion serves my need for community. 
I don't mean to imply that I have never failed in my communal responsibilities, far from it.  I am no less guilty of hideous acts of disloyal behavior than anyone else that I have ever known. My question is more about what binds people than about what separates them;  about what common bonds have the potential to build community, rather than about which destroy it.  For perhaps, if we can but make a genuine effort to dig inside our own hearts and  identify that which deeply matters to us, we might be able to put aside our differences and locate that vital kernel of love, that thing (whatever it might be) that is truly binding, even in the midst of our imperfect relationships.