Late summer in Connecticut is different than the South, where entire weeks, even months are spent yearning for fall before a break from the heat actually arrives. September in South Carolina is an exercise in patience; hot days in October bring the sane to madness. But in Connecticut, relief from the heat arrives every single night. Summer evenings are less oppressive and sticky than in the South. Pleasant enough to be outside.
One Sunday in August, having settled into a new space and prepared for the academic year ahead, John, Herbie, and I drove out into the country, which is lush and green in the summer and, from what I can tell, charming all year long.
Our hope was to share a restful moment before I started a new degree, and by all accounts, we did. The day was beautiful and inviting, overflowing with the fullness of late summer. We had blackberry pie, shopped in quirky bookstores, and stopped at honor-code farm stands selling more fairytale eggplant than I have ever seen.
But evening had not yet arrived, and even for a Southerner, it was hot.
The sun was searing, invading his way into our patio lunch, our walks down the sidewalk, our attempts to peruse a library book sale. He seemed content to remind us that summer is his; there is no escaping it; the season may pass, but the most scorching moments remind us that coming summers will only get hotter and longer from here.
After exploring the village of Kent, heating up and cooling down and heating up again, my little family drove across Connecticut farmland to a winery, which seemed a reasonable place to end the day. Once we arrived, we walked across the giant parking lot and I noticed many people were lounging outside.
“I hope we can find a table inside,” I said, and John agreed. We were tired of being hot.
Moments later, an employee asked that we keep Herbie outside, so we trudged around the building and down a hill, towards an expansive back lawn that overlooks a meadow. The sun was getting heavier, sinking lower in the sky, but we had hours to go before the heat would break.
As we rounded the corner, I fanned myself with one hand and carried Herbie and an overflowing tote with the other. I paused to get my bearings and decide which way to go. That was when I saw it.
The back lawn had a towering tree right in the center. It stood tall above the open field and cast a shadow so large that everyone there had placed themselves beneath it. The lawn was sprinkled with blankets and chairs, and people buzzed with happiness.
I was floored. A single tree was offering all of us exactly what we needed. It gave us shade.
***
My new building is home to people with a wide range of ages and experience; it is a kind, quiet group with whom we are enjoying sharing space. There are several retirees among us. They were the people we got to know first, and they are all excited about my new chapter.
Recently the couple beneath us said, “Lauren, I have been thinking about you; it’s your first week of class!” From next door I heard, “We cannot wait to learn about all you are studying.” And from the man in his seventies who once graduated from the same program, “That community really touched my heart. It shaped my life. You have made an excellent choice.”
For years, I have hoped for more intergenerational presence in my life, and suddenly I have it coming from every direction. The experience of the people I am encountering is not lost on me. I am learning from new professors. I am meeting new mentors. I am waving at my neighbors.
Those neighbors already hold a special place in the rhythm of my days. They are engaged and supportive, and contrasting the rigors of everyday life — and by that I mean the alchemizing heat of a program like the one I have started — they are gentle and caring. The pace around me may quicken and get hot, but my neighbors are never in a hurry. They offer shade.
***
Over the past two weeks, I spent countless hours with the divinity school’s incoming class. We learned, we shared meals, and we socialized. The next day, we did it all again. We asked each other questions about how to find advisors and register for class. If one of us gained insight, some piece of knowledge about how things work in our new community, we shared it.
Eventually we figured out which classes we wanted to take and went together to the first day. We whispered wow to each other when lectures blew us away. We scribbled wisdom in notebooks so quickly that our hands cramped. We shared stories of being moved to tears and marveled at what surprised us.
We kept going, squeezing in chapel services, an opening party, and trips to the bar. We gathered around a fire. We met each other’s families. When I got lost on the shuttle, we laughed.
The vibe is we are in this together. Most of us want to be in ministry, hoping to serve communities in one way or another, and the care and intentionality the group brings to life is palpable. They offer little slices of hope for my everyday and big hope for the future to come.
We understand that we will be more successful in this program, and find it more enjoyable, if we stick together. We look towards each other often, and if it is needed, we offer shade.
***
These recent experiences with caring people and supportive communities have illustrated what it feels like to find interpersonal shade from the harshness of life. They bring a cooling breeze when it is needed most, which is always welcomed. They remind me of the tree at the winery.
In high summer, nothing compares to finding shelter from the blazing sun. That tree, sky-scraping in its gentleness, reaching from the depths of its roots in order to soar, brought relief to many on a hot summer day. As I plant little seeds for my future, push them down in soil and pour water on top, I wonder how I might do the same.
Between you and me—
Hello from the other side of my annual break! This year, it was different than usual. I spent the month moving to a new state, preparing for the academic year, and starting a new degree. As a result, my life suddenly feels very full. Full of new people, new thinking, new environments, new experiences, new reading piles.
Integrating yourself into a new community is always exciting, and I could not be more grateful to say that this one feels more supportive and inspiring than I dared dream. Every mention of theology, for example, is grounded in the pressing human need to lift up the oppressed and overthrow empire. It is, in a word, invigorating. And the people — oh, the people — I love the people.
I am still getting my bearings, and I know it will take every ounce of my resolve to make the most of every moment, yet still prioritize the balance and harmony I have come to value above almost anything else since leaving the corporate world. How do you succeed in an external environment while refusing to sacrifice rest and integration, pleasure and bliss? I do not know the answer right now, but I am committed to finding out.
As a reminder, I am switching to a new cadence for fall. I will see you back here in two weeks! Till then, take care out there.
The audio version of WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is published every Wednesday. Last week’s, which was about my annual need to disappear and my new cadence for fall, is available on Spotify, Apple, Substack, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
WE’RE ALL FRIENDS HERE is written by Lauren Maxwell. Can you help us grow? Send this to a friend and ask them to subscribe. Share it on Instagram and tag @lauren_only. If you enjoy this work become a sponsor, which makes this publication possible and keeps it free for all. Thank you so much for your contributions!
So thrilling!