This morning I write from the floor of our entry way.  The rest of the rooms of our house are full of silently sleeping bodies recovering from jet lag.  Even the living room couch is occupied.  I hope our realtor doesn’t surprise us this morning for the before-you-move-in inspection that we have yet to schedule.

Our friends from Grand Rapids, Brian and Becky and their three kids, arrived Monday.  They, too, are taking family sabbatical year and enrolling their kids in the international school.  It’s been a fun house party this last day and a half while they wait for their rental agreement to begin this afternoon.

Brian and Becky are part of our church “household,” a group familiar with house parties thanks to the generosity and hospitality of the Loeks family, who have a rambling Victorian era house on Lake Michigan into which we can all fit for a weekend.  Being here together is reminiscent of those weekends at the cottage–except that this house is way smaller, there is no beach, and we all have the disorienting sense that life as we know it will not pick back up on Monday.

All of the adults have been amazed that our little back garden can entertain the kids for so long.  Among us Americans, there are five.  Add the neighbors’ kids who have come over, and sometimes the garden and back path have ten or so, teaching each other Yes/No & Ja/Nee with the level of repetition that only toddlers enjoy. They have collected snails and slugs to make a terrarium, tied toddler bikes together to make a train, and played endless games that look like land-locked Sharks and Minnows, i.e. try-not-to-get-hit-by-the-person-swinging-on-the-swing.  Needless to say, I can’t watch.

The weather has been beautiful.  Not only did it not rain yesterday, but there was never a cloud in the sky.  This is the kind of mild and sunny that suckers you into thinking “I want to live here forever!” and we’re counting each moment a blessing because we know that the darkness and the drizzle are coming soon.

The wonderful weather means that all of the kids and families are milling around the back gardens in the afternoons.  We have met more neighbors than I can remember, and I am immensely grateful that the homeowners left behind a list of everyone’s names and kids’ names on the house-care instruction sheet.

All of this celebratory togetherness has made me remember living in East Lake Commons, a co-housing community in Atlanta to which I moved when I was 26.  Strolling around the commons, it wasn’t unusual to spend an hour talking to neighbors before finally reaching your destination.  This led some neighbors to begin wearing red bandanas when they wanted to go for a walk for exercise.  At one of the weekly community meetings, the sign of the bandana was explained: “Please don’t take it personally that I don’t stop and talk to you; I just want to go for a walk without stopping.”  Within weeks, the community list serve was full of knock-offs:  “If I’m wearing a blue bandana, it means that I’m hungry and too lazy to cook and I’m hoping you will invite me over for dinner.”  “If I’m wearing a pink bandana, I’m looking for a babysitter.”  “If I’m wearing a green bandana, I’m feeling horny.”  The bandana phenomena died a swift death through mockery.

Yesterday, I didn’t pull a bandana out of my suitcase; I merely told Steve that I wanted to go work.  While everyone else went to a medieval music festival at the Dom Kerk and to lunch, I went to the university library reading room.  It was excellent to feel like a grad student again, reading off and on for several hours (and taking ham and cheese pastry breaks) before taking the long stroll home.

I love community.  It means that I can leave everyone else in each other’s good company and go be alone for a few hours without guilt.