As the days pass, I get humbler in some ways.

There are no blinds or curtains on my windows, so when I wake up life is already humming outside. I sleep later now, no longer wake up when it’s still dark, so I open my eyes to skies that are already blue or gray, to a life that seems to relentlessly tap on the windows, demanding I get up.

Who and what are you, I ask it as I lie there. Why are you so relentless? Why make me feel as if I’m being summoned? Yes yes, I know I’m all of it, a constellation of all the events and processes from beginningless and endless time, not a separate person at all. And still, when that morning breaks and I hear the warble of now-golden finches, I feel a pause, as if I’m not sure about joining all that activity and enthusiasm, out there.

Is this what they mean when they say that as we get older, we don’t feel like doing much? I can’t stop doing even as certain capacities decrease. Life couldn’t care less how old I am, whether I’m in the mood, what I’ll do or won’t do today, it goes on regardless. I almost imagine it sticking out its tongue at me, as if to say: Get up or not, do or not, write or not—who cares? I go on. You want to make some meaning out of me? Go ahead. It doesn’t matter to me, I’m beyond your meaning. You may need it, I don’t.

Yes, I still like to make up meaning, not because any of it is true but because I love the process. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the meaning of community.

I already wrote in my post about our days in Alabama and joining a local rally for small groups helping each other out. As I write this, I’m wearing the black t-shirt given me by Mama Callie saying: Crime Survivors Speak, the words printed in blue and white. Mama Callie had embraced us when we arrived and then spoke publicly about losing her two children to gun violence, which has become her biggest concern.

Other Black women—and they were all Black and they were women—took their turns describing their groups, each arising out of a specific mother’s loss, grief, and pain. One talked about abuse by her husband, and after leaving him she started a support group for women dealing with domestic violence. Another talked of addictions and the life they steal from you. These were not college-reared women; all talked out of experience. They led us in calling out the names of those who’d been killed. One would say a name out loud, and the others would repeat it.

Finally, the last woman got up to speak. I can’t remember her name, only that she was shorter than the others, hair dyed red. I can’t quote her, but in essence, here is what she said: My sisters, when you need help, get it. When you need support, get it. Too many of us try to survive all on our lonesome. Too many of us don’t go to counseling because we think we shouldn’t have to, we should be strong enough to do everything by ourselves.

Sisters, getting help is a sign of strength, not a sign of weakness. We have a proud community right here in Montgomery. We have counseling services here, we have doctors when we need them. Most of all, we have each other. Don’t forget that. Don’t do things alone when you don’t have to.

She said more, especially to me later on when we both cleaned up a table of refreshments at the end of the event.

Why did I go over to talk to her? Because I thought of my mother, and of myself. I never knew anyone as stalwart and courageous as my mother, a woman who’d helped save her family during the Holocaust. I thought of her as a mountain, strong as granite, a giant. She urged me to make the best of my life, told me that her opportunities had been very limited but that nothing should hold me back.

And she was so alone. She felt alone. She always needed to be tough, never give an inch, take care of her family all on her own, never trust or rely on anyone. She was heroic, though she didn’t need to be. People admired her, always commented to me: What a mother you have. Fearless! None of that was quite true, she had deep fears and qualms (though no remorse), but didn’t show it one bit. Others were sensitive, others were vulnerable. Not her.

I admired her greatly, and couldn’t have an authentic conversation with her. I grew up to be a lot like her, though certainly not the mountain she was. I had fantasies of heroism, of saving situations and people, of undergoing mighty tasks—and always alone. Not together with others, not supported by others, never depending on others.

Many years later I’d work in the West Bank with Palestinian peace organizations during the week and come to be with my mother in Jerusalem for the Jewish Sabbath. We, two strong, independent women, had nothing to talk about. I always thought that was because her political beliefs were so opposite to my own, but in truth, I think we both had trouble exposing ourselves, revealing the soft belly of truths, fears, and needs we didn’t want to own and certainly not acknowledge.

My mother died exactly 4 years before the Alabama retreat began; I lit a Jewish memorial candle for her the night before I left, and she loomed large in my memory and feelings throughout those hot days. I felt a deep regret over all those years that we didn’t actually talk, didn’t share from the heart. Felt the irony that I, who had facilitated so many councils and circles, couldn’t speak to my own mother.

But when that powerful Black mother talked of the need for community, for joint healing, for depending on each other, and always, always asking for help, a voice came up inside: This is the lesson you didn’t get from your mother. You learned so much, but not this.

I was overwhelmed with gratitude for her life and what she gave me. After the rally and a private conversation with my new friend and teacher, I felt that, finally, a circle may have closed, and that the lucky ones among us have more than one mother (even if the second is younger than us).