I’ve been trying to find my way into a story about the latest Big Summer Potluck. I had an idea that I would write about storytelling itself; the power and magic that’s inherent in hearing someone share something deeply personal, meaningful, or just plain funny. The way that a room full of half strangers, half friends, can be woven together over tales of beekeeping, bread, ice cream bars and boyfriends. About why hunger is more than handouts and how determination and a small idea can grow and help create community. Or maybe the moment when, with a startled gasp, you recognise yourself in the story being told.
warm as a bear hug on the inside
As I pour through my too few photos and my fulsome memories, I'm reminded that stories unfold over time and space, that the telling in one place of a singular event might capture the essence, but not the whole. But that's okay. Because I know I will be telling stories, as I have already done, about this extraordinary weekend for months to come.
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