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From Stones to Soup
I love a good potluck. My friends bring the best goodies to share. So, whenever Darlene comes for a visit from Idaho, I like finding an excuse to gather some of the people who miss her. The process is an easy one. Darlene and I make a list. Our friend Nancy handles the invitations. I provide the house and some beverages. Everyone is invited to bring something to share. My kind of party.
Some of the people who came have been friends for more than 20 years. At one time or another, most of us attended the same Unity church. That’s where the friendships began—going to lunch after church, participating in small study groups, taking classes, and showing up every Sunday. While many of us no longer attend, and Darlene no longer even lives in California, those friendships have stretched beyond the place that originally brought us together.
As I thought about our Sunday potluck and what I wanted to share in this Cuppa Joy, an old folk tale came to mind. Most of us know the story of Stone Soup. A hungry traveler arrives in a village and asks for something to eat, but no one has anything to spare. So, he fills a pot with water, drops in a stone, and announces that he is making stone soup. Of course, stone soup could be just a little better with an onion. Someone has an onion. A carrot would improve it even more. Someone else finds a carrot. Soon there are potatoes, cabbage, herbs, plus a little meat. One by one, the villagers bring what they have, and eventually everyone enjoys a feast that none of them could—or would—have created alone.
I’ve always thought of Stone Soup as a story about generosity and sharing. Lately, I’ve begun to think it may also be a story about community. My Sunday potluck could be a version of stone soup—a way of bringing people together and strengthening connections. Each of us brought something different, but what we were really sharing was twenty years of history.
I love having friendships that span decades. That wasn’t how life started out for me. By the time I reached seventh grade, I had attended seven different schools. The moves were unexpected, and each one became harder to adjust to. I learned how familiar people and places could quickly become memories. When I started at that last new school at age eleven, I was taller than most of my classmates, wore glasses—not stylish ones—and had become painfully shy and self-conscious. Reaching out to make new friends no longer came easily to me. Besides, who knew when we’d have to move again.
I’ve often joked that once I became an adult and finally had something to say about where I lived, I put down roots that penetrated to the center of the earth. For almost sixty years, I’ve chosen to live within a one-mile circle, moving three times within Arden Park but always just a few blocks to a slightly larger home. Staying put gave me the geographic stability I’d missed in childhood and allowed me to give that same stability to my own sons. However, that feeling of belonging took longer to achieve. For years, I thought all that moving explained why making connections was difficult for me. And perhaps it explains part of it. But even after I finally stayed put, I continued to hold back and let shyness prevail.
Eventually I emerged from my shell and began making different choices. I joined our Park Board and served for eight years. I became involved in my sons’ schools, PTA, Little League, work, a babysitting co-op, a gourmet dinner group, church, Rotary, card nights, and book clubs. I wasn’t the one who created those communities, but I learned to step into them and find ways to contribute.
Some people seem to have a natural talent for reaching out. My friend and neighbor is one of them. I’ve lived in this house for almost 50 years, but it wasn’t until Laurie moved onto our street that we really bonded as a community. She hosted the first of many Christmas gatherings and inspired other neighborhood parties. Eventually we added July Fourth celebrations, Christmas street lighting, potlucks and open houses.
What began because Laurie said, “Let’s get together,” became part of the fabric of our neighborhood—now nicknamed “Cresta Strong.” For some reason, the theme from Cheers is running through my head: “Where everybody knows your name.” That’s how my street feels now. And much of that is due to Laurie.
Laurie didn’t stop with the neighborhood. A little over seven years ago, she started a book group, inviting women already connected to her but not necessarily to one another. Seven years later, we’re bonded. Laurie brought us together; I eventually became the group’s chief communicator. Maybe that’s how most communities begin. Someone has to put the pot on the stove.
My granddaughter Kaianne has that same gift for making connections. She’s had to change schools three times in five years, but her way of being with people is much like Laurie’s. Kaianne started ninth grade last week at an all-girls school. She walked through the doors on her first day not knowing anyone. By the end of the week, she told me she already had a group of six friends and rattled off their names. Kaianne reached out and made one friend. That girl knew someone else. The next girl knew another girl, and the circle kept expanding. I smiled when she told me. At her age, I was still the shy new girl waiting and hoping someone would talk to me. Kaianne seems to have more of Laurie’s talent for reaching out.
Creating a group from scratch isn’t my strength. Helping tend one once it exists—that’s more me. I’ll email the book group, collect reading recommendations, keep track of dates and who’s doing what. When it comes to parties, I’ll open my home. I’ll think, “Darlene is coming. Who would enjoy seeing her?” I’ll check with Darlene, get a list going, and Nancy will handle the invitations. A community needs all kinds of contributions.
There’s another lesson I’ve learned from this dive into communities. It would be easy for me to compare myself with Laurie and Kaianne and come up feeling less-than when it comes to making connections. There’s an old saying, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” I’ve learned to avoid that trap. Laurie and Kaianne bring their gifts to community. I bring mine.
Which brings me back to stone soup. Someone brings an onion. Someone offers carrots. Someone contributes potatoes. Someone provides the pot and a place to put it. Someone knows how to season the soup. Someone else may simply pull up a chair and make the person beside them feel welcome. No single contribution creates the feast, and not everyone brings the same thing. If they did, it wouldn’t make very good soup.
I’ve become increasingly grateful for all the communities that have moved through my life. Some lasted for a season. Some friendships disappeared when the activity that connected us ended. Others somehow survived across decades, divorces, moves, losses and changes in circumstances. New ones continue to appear.
I’m even beginning to recognize a community among the people who meet me here each week for a Cuppa Joy. We may never sit around the same physical table, but perhaps this is a table of sorts, one where I bring a story and you bring your own experiences to it. Week after week, we keep showing up.
Maybe the greatest lesson of Stone Soup goes beyond sharing. Community begins when we show up, bring what we have to offer and participate in creating something together. No one person has to carry the whole load. But perhaps community becomes something more lasting when our connection to one another grows beyond whatever brought us to the table in the first place. The activity may end, the meeting place may change, someone may even move to Idaho, but the relationships continue.