My image of ‘the village’ is more than a little idealised. I see children running and laughing together, making up games, living in a world of their own imagining. Mothers with busy hands – cooking, weaving, mending, crafting – talking and commiserating. Men with dusty, leathery hands sitting down at the end of a long day, hugging a warm bowl of stew in the twilight.

And it would have been a little like that, along with the messiness of human interactions… and the raw, jagged edges of grief when the brutality of life crept through.

Comparing the nostalgic beauty of the tribal community to the isolated and contained living that we have now perfected is a little jarring. We ache for the nearness of this group to belong to, and find it momentarily in the distraction of shows and other people’s stories. The reality of humans living together in shared space is too much for our sensitive, protected psyches to latch onto, except in dream.

But if we don’t dip our toes into the pool of vulnerability – risking the chaos and messiness of opening up to those around us – how can we flourish? We expect too much from ourselves, not leaning into the strengths and promises of the group. Yet how can anyone hope to help, if we don’t know there is a need?

This post is part of a link up with an amazing community writers at Five Minute Friday. We free write for five minutes each Friday on a prompt. Join us!