The mycelium of now.

A note of gratitude for my community.

I was driving home last Friday night, with sparkling threads of fairy hair newly weaved into my own locks (I got some with my daughter at Fridays after Five), reflecting on community and all that it means to me these days. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been feeling a bit less of the existential gread I wrote about in my last post—I attribute that largely to the warmer weather, steady sun, and time spent outside. But it’s also this: my people, my network, my community. I have had an exceptional few weeks of witnessing the power of this community.

Two weeks ago, I celebrated the launch of my book, Badass Women of Charlottesville, with a party that brought together my community and members of the larger Charlottesville community for an evening of listening to powerful, inspiring female stories, gathering with some of those women and their friends and loved ones, and amplifying these stories. To say I’m proud of this project is an understatement: it ranks near the top of accomplishments that I’m most proud of in my life. I still can’t believe it happened: I decided to write a book and I did.

This past week, my (very large) portrait was plastered on the front of every C-VILLE Weekly in town, bringing more attention to the book, and by default to me. I heard from so many old friends, acquaintances, and people that I barely know, all sharing their kind words and congratulations. I’ve felt so lucky to live in the town that I do, to have been trusted with sharing these women’s stories, and to be the beneficiary of all the positivity, encouragement, and inspiration that has come out of this project.

I feel more deeply rooted and connected to Charlottesville than ever before after telling these stories. I have new friends—women I never would have known or spoken to if I had not reached out and asked permission to learn more about them and share their stories widely. I feel more supported than ever before in the work that I do, the craft I get to create, and the knowledge that I am making something important, something that resonates with people. I feel a deep purpose and peace, like I am doing exactly what I am meant to do, in the place where I am meant to be. I couldn’t be more grateful.

As I was walking out of Fridays after Five a few days ago, I ran into yet another set of neighbors (it’s a small town, especially when you’ve lived here for 20+ years). I was thrilled to see them and to connect—so I approached them excitedly.

“We were just talking about you,” the male neighbor said. “We saw the C-VILLE Weekly.”

We chatted for a few minutes about the article and the book, catching up on that news. But then, as I was hoping we’d do, we shifted topics to another hot news item: the fox family that lives in our neighborhood.

There is no hotter news on the streets of Mill Creek. We’ve all been tracking the fox (I know now there has to be more than one) in the late winter months as he’s been making his way around the neighborhood in the early evening hours. Now that it’s light out until 8pm, there are more frequent and earlier sightings. But, what’s more, is that there are FOX BABIES, or kits, as they’re called. A whole fox family!! I am delirious with excitement over this discovery. Turns out, a friend of mine lives in the top section of our neighborhood, and she recently posted an Instagram story of THE KITS PLAYING ON HER DECK. There they were, just romping around like little domesticated kittens, cute as could be! I reached out and learned that the kits and adults have made their home under this friend’s deck and the kits are out playing like this every evening!

Needless to say, the fox family has been the talk on the streets. Their home under the deck is visible from the main road that leads into and out of our neighborhood. So each evening, around 7:45pm, when the sun is starting to set, the foxes wake up to start their day and come out to play.

This brings me back to Friday night. I had timed my arrival home on Friday perfectly around their wake-up time, and was cruising slowly into the neighborhood, craning my neck to get a view of the deck under which they sleep. Other neighbors were approaching from all directions at the same time, slowly walking by themselves or with their dogs toward this spot on the road, craning their necks to see the same wildlife show.

There they were: one adult (I assume it’s a male, since I assume all adult foxes are male) and two kits. I parked my car so I could get a better view. The male sat tall at the top of the hill, being dive-bombed by an aggressive blue jay, but unbothered. The kits were nearby, waking up, and eating some grass. The male then bolted down the hill, toward the sidewalk at the bottom of the hill where we were watching the family. He trotted away into a wooded patch of land off the main road, presumably to find breakfast for the family.

I headed back home. On the way, I pass my neighbor Tim’s house, with his new garden footprint, ready to be filled with compost and soil. Last fall, their zinnias were prolific and lasted into the cold, dark months. There’s Susan, my across-the-street neighbor, waving at me with her windows down as she drives past the intersection where I sit. There’s the new family on the corner, their three boys playing in the side street under the last of the Friday night light. They’ve planted more trees in their front and back yard; I can’t wait to watch those trees grow in.

Back home again, the baby birds that hatched in the nest by our front door this spring have flown the coop. (Here’s a photo from just after they hatched.)

This season is so sweet. The birds, the owls, the fox family, the progression of gardens and growth around my neighborhood: there is so much expansion, so much connectedness. This network, this mycelium that attaches and nurtures us is at its most vibrant right now, all new sprouts and blooms. Everywhere I go, I am reminded that I am not alone. The plants and flowers, the animals and humans, we are all together. We are all in this together.

I hope that your life includes reminders of this sweetness. I hope your network is filled with people who show up to cheer you on, to celebrate and grieve, to love your children and share in your joy. I hope that these people walk close to you, reminding you of all the shapes that love takes.