The smell of bread wafted through the room as I coil folded my twelfth and final loaf of sourdough bread. I spent the last two days in the kitchen, baking sourdough loaves of bread for my new neighbors. I’m determined to get started building community here.
We moved to our new neighborhood in the suburbs just a few months ago. Although some neighbors are quick to throw a hand up to wave when walking their dogs or if they’re out to do yardwork, more of them ignore our presence. Everybody is wrapped up in their own life, content to go to work and come home and go inside their house immediately. Into their refuge from the crazy and chaotic world. I can’t say I blame them.
We chose living in the suburbs for many reasons. We initially had hoped to buy a house farther out in the country that had some land on it. But then I remembered the deep depression I fell into in Alabama and how more than anything, I longed to be part of a close-knit community again.
Being stationed overseas while my husband was active-duty military meant our friends were a stones throw away. Our babysitter had a 3 minute walk to get to our house. My best friend lived in the apartment tower across the parking lot.
Living in a walkable community where all of our basic needs were being met did wonders for my mental health. Even across the world, away from every friend and family member I’ve ever known, there was still an undeniable sense of community and caretaking. This profoundly changed my outlook on what we’re missing in American society.
We did end up making friends with our neighbors in Alabama and it made a world of difference in my daily life. I wondered how many connections we would miss out on if we moved somewhere without neighbors. A house came up for sale in the suburbs that was our dream home, in more ways than one.
I started to reexamine my previously negative opinion on living in the suburbs. I started to think of the houses on the road as an opportunity for building community and connection. Sure, the neighbors are close and everybody can see each other from their front yards – but what if we are in community with each other? Wouldn’t close neighbors be a blessing then? We decided it would be.
Back to the bread though. Over this holiday season, I made it my mission to meet our new neighbors. I baked 12 loaves of bread, one for every house on our dead end road. I tied each loaf shut in a bread bag with a dried orange slice and sprig of rosemary. For the neighbors who might not be home, I signed the Christmas card with our names and house number so they’d know where it came from.
My husband, two young kids and I all bundled up in our coats and set out to knock on doors. Some neighbors answered and were pleasantly surprised to meet us. We connected with our next door neighbor finally, who was unexpectedly pleasant, given that we hadn’t talked to him after a few months of living here. Two doors down, a new friend invited us to walk around to the backyard to check out their chicken coop setup. We came home with fresh eggs she insisted we take. We exchanged phone numbers with others.
For those who didn’t answer, we left bread and cards on their doorsteps. I wondered if they’d eat the bread or throw it away—it can feel odd to accept homemade food from a stranger. I get that. But now, we’re feeling the changes in our neighborhood after our bread gifting. Neighbors now stop when the kids are outside playing and make small talk. Another neighbor left us fudge on our doorstep on New Years Eve.
Just yesterday, the two college-aged girls from across the street knocked on our door with two single-serve boxes of red velvet cake. “We baked while we were snowed in and had extra,” they said. “We wanted to thank you for the bread since we missed you over Christmas.”
In a gift economy, there’s a spirit of reciprocity. Giving and receiving become ongoing acts of care and connection. Getting or giving a gift out of the blue in our daily life sparks joy. Now, it’s my turn to give back to our new friends. What will the next shared thing be?
In a world where everything has a price, the value of things diminishes. If I buy a scarf at the store, the transaction begins and ends between me and the cashier—no relationship forms. I care less about this scarf than a scarf my aunt knitted for me. I’m more careless with the scarf I paid money for.
In community, this changes. If I can trade a loaf of bread for cake or eggs, I don’t need to spend money on those things. Instead, we can begin to rely on relationships. We treasure these gifts even more because they have more meaning than something we bought with money.
Capitalism thrives on individualism. When we’re isolated, we each have to buy our own goods, sustaining a system of competition, accumulation, and the inevitable exploitation of the working class, those in the Global South and the planet. We can’t continue on this current path. It’s unsustainable and it’s destroying our world.
Indigenous cultures have long understood the power of building community and reciprocity. Some Native American societies held ceremonies like potlatches, where wealth was shared and redistributed, ensuring no one went without. This is in direct contrast to capitalist ideals, which encourage hoarding for personal gain.
Hoarding can feel like safety: if my pantry is full, I’m secure against tomorrow’s food shortages. That’s what capitalism teaches. But indigenous traditions remind us that we thrive in community. “I store meat in the belly of my brother,” was what a hunter in the Brazilian rainforest said after asked why after killing a huge deer, he didn’t store the meat for later, but instead held a feast for his neighbors.
Building community and embracing a gift economy is a radical act of resistance. It shows us that there is a way to open doors of connection instead of facing individualism and isolation. In a world that is becoming more and more ravaged by the exploitation of capitalism, by the constant drive to consume, consume, and consume, we must find another way. We must believe in another way forward. What you put out into your community will come back to you in unexpected ways.
So many of us dream of living in intentional communities. We joke about getting our best friends together and buying a huge plot of land to live off-grid. Maybe we don’t have to wait – I don’t think we can afford to wait. I think we need to be taking steps to build community no matter where we’re at.
Although our front yard is bare now, I dream of the future it could hold. One with a white trellis that acts as a doorway to our front yard, with berries beckoning neighbors to come and pick. With a garden that overflows with bounty, plenty for sharing with those around us. A Free Little Library that neighbors stop at to get new books (some of which I fought to keep from being banned in Alabama’s libraries, of course) for themselves and their children.
My dream is bigger than our front yard. I dream of a sustainable, caring community right here in our neighborhood. A place where all of our neighbors know each other by name, look out for one another, and aren’t afraid to knock on a door or ask for help. A place where isolation gives way to connection. As the world continues down a more and more uncertain path, building community is the key that will pull us through.
There is a better way to live than retreating into isolated, nuclear units. Our Earth deserves better. You deserve better. I hope you, too, find ways to build community where you live. A better world is indeed possible and we’re responsible for being the ones to build it.
I was inspired to write this blog after reading The Serviceberry | Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World by Robin Kimmerer. If this blog resonated with you, I highly recommend reading it.
