Where I Live

We are social creatures. But the more crowded into cities we are, it seems that we become less and less social. We pack ourselves into buses and tubes, avoiding eye contact as we hope to get to work without the complication of acknowledging the humanity of the the eight million other people who live in this city. We live in flats and tower blocks for years, sometimes decades, without know the names of our neighbours. The more we are isolated, the more we reach out. Facebook, twitter, dating sites and blogs (ironically) often times become substitutes for actually having to participate in our physical community. These outlets are wonderful tools that can supplement our experiences. They allow us to share our thoughts and ideas with others. But I fear that we risk them becoming replacements for actual human contact.
I have always longed for a sense of belonging to a community. As a young child in East Los Angeles, I day dreamed of places like Mayberry. Small towns where everybody knew and helped each other. The kinds of places where, when a neighbour knew you were not well, a casserole would appear. If you where down, somebody would notice and "pop by for a cuppa".
The more that I looked and longed for this, the further away it seemed to be. That is until the day I was duped into moving onto a leaky, broken down old, wooden boat. Duped? Yes duped by my wonderful, impetuous wife. You see, she had spotted a boat with a for rent sign on it and decided that it would be a great place to live. Her challenge was making me think that it was my idea. So she called me and asked me if I would like to meet her after work, go for a nice walk and perhaps dinner.
I took the bait and whilst walking along the canal she "saw" a boat for rent. Her words were something to the effect of "hey Pat, look at that. Haven't you always wanted to live on a boat". Her ruse worked. It was now my idea. I took out my mobile and made the deal over the phone. I remember coming into the boat for the first time. I was slightly horrified. The ceiling was too low, nothing really worked right, it smelled "boaty", and it had a chemical toilet. It was something like a backyard shed and a caravan without wheels. What the hell I thought. I moved to London to experience change. Throwing caution and all logic to the wind, we set up home
. I remember the first night like it was yesterday. We decided to have a nice, civilised dinner al fresco on the tow path. Along came a pair of the campest gay dudes that I have ever met. Our new neighbours. "If you would like to pop by for drinks later darlings, we'd love to have you". "We won't die if you don't". What an invite! We finished up dinner and took our remaining wine to their boat. There was no turning back after this. We were down the rabbit hole. That night was magic. We met neighbours and new friends. We drank wine and talked until three in the morning.
In one evening we seemed to learn the intimate details of dear friends, who a few hours earlier, were perfect strangers. This didn't stop. This area quickly blossomed in our hearts. The people who live in here are a unique diverse mix of artists, lawyers, charity workers, builders and every other occupation that one finds in a typical community. But there seems to be a difference. The people themselves are different. A wonderful eclectic mix of beautiful self proclaimed societal misfits. Living here is like nothing that I could ever conceive. It is like a family. That is a terribly euphemistic phrase, but it is true. Our doors are always open to one another. The people here freely give the most precious of commodities, their time and compassion. My neighbours are open and accepting. I recall a neighbour coming by and asking for a hug. She began crying as we hugged. We didn't even discuss what had made her sad. She just needed a hug.
I love this place. I love it completely. That means that living on a boat sometimes gets on my nerves. The people can get on my nerves. I certainly get on theirs! But that's what make my love of this place so complete, it is real here.
One does give up something when moving on to a tiny boat in a community of about 50 people. What is given up is not necessarily privacy, space, a garden or conveniences. What is given up, what I have given up, is that veil I wear outside. When I walk through the gates and lock them behind me, I know I am home. I can be the real me to any and everybody in this place. That does not mean that I will not be judged. On the contrary. I will be judged, honestly lovingly and by people who have a stake in my holistic well being. So by accident, or serendipity if you will, I have found my community. It certainly is not Mayberry, but it is home. I hope and pray that this place will be my home for a very long time.