Community is on my mind these days, from micro-communities to world communities. Shall we begin with the community of a micro-ecosystem of lily pads? Or purple bladderwort, festooned with a tiny frog? What about a moss-lined log, perfect and carpeted for turtles, sunning their primordial shells, veined and vulnerable necks stretched to the sun? And the tender, shallow shoreline, home to minnow and water bug, their competing needs ending sometimes in a “gulp!” and a swish of tail. I fear I know abysmally little about the community of Haitian shacks, rattling in a driven rain. About the rubble of Aleppo. The sadness and dust of Somalia. But I do know that community can be built with kind hands and with open hands. One by one, relationship by relationship, perhaps it’s all we can hope for in this season of lewd and lost and dangerous. Maybe this is all too irrational and pie-in-the-sky, but I have to believe in something these days, and I think it could be worse than to hold a turtle and a bug, dancing their true and honest dances across the glass of the lake, as my community.