We Need Each Other

Reflections on our cottage bakery’s first season at the local pizza farm — and the surprising ways community can change your life.

Here’s something I’ve never told anyone before: In seventh grade, I would dream up a life of living alone in a cute little cottage with a few cozy cats. That’s it. That’s what I thought I wanted — to be alone. And while I’m sure those snooty — I mean snotty, well, maybe I mean both — middle schoolers had something to do with this dream, I do love being alone. (Sorry, husband and children.) Being alone fills me up in ways nothing else can.

It wasn’t until maybe a year ago that I stopped equating my love for being alone with doing life alone. I finally understood that life was never meant to be done alone. We need others. We need community. We need each other.

And that’s why I decided to create Baking with Hart, a cottage bakery I launched in May. My husband and I bake and sell scratch-made baked goods like pies, bars, and cookies from our sunny kitchen, always using eggs from our hens and locally sourced specialty ingredients (think honey, maple syrup, fruit).

Our son, Hartman, is the inspiration behind the name, while his love for sweets and baking inspires the spirit of it all. And while this is all sweet and true, that’s just part of the story.

Before officially launching, a peaceful assurance kept simmering in my heart that the purpose of this cottage bakery would warm me in ways far beyond a cookie sale ever could. This instinct led me to reach out to the owner of a local pizza farm who happens to be a former colleague, and who I now consider a dear friend.

If you’ve never been to a pizza farm, there’s nothing quite like it. Imagine a weekly outdoor party happening rain or shine, under the towering oaks and maples and among the goats, cattle, llama, and swine. The kind of gathering where live music livens your soul and the lingering smoke of a roaring fire captures your senses and steals your wandering mind. Then there’s the wood-fired pizza — ohhh, the pizza. But I haven’t even gotten to the best part: the community.

It’s a beautiful mingling of folks of all ages: teenage first loves confidently hand in hand, unknowingly showing off the latest fashion trends; empty nesters Melody and Dean taking the topless Porsche for a little spin around the neighborhood; young, tired families taking a night off from dinner duty, only to chase and wrangle little feet frolicking on the farm. Some bring lawn chairs, blankets, and great-grandparents; others perch a cute little wicker basket on the crook of their arm, straight out of your favorite scene in The Sound of Music. Many arrive just as they are, open to whatever change of pace their Thursday night longs for.

It’s like watching a film right before your eyes. And then the director yells, “CUT!” and turns to me, as if to say, “Hey, are you here? Are you ready?”

And was I ever! Who knew a slice of pie and some cookies could be the perfect companion to it all? Oh, the stories I could tell. Each week since the start of May, we’d plan a special seasonal menu, gather ingredients, bake, and head to the farm. It wasn’t long before I noticed it. That flame of community igniting my heart. Really, I didn’t have to do much of anything to spark it. No, people do that sort of thing for you. Just show up to an event like this with an open heart and open ears, and you’ll experience it too.

I met teachers and doctors and students and mothers, even a flower farmer who invited me to sell treats at her farmstand (and who I’m having over for dinner in a few weeks). Someone who I’m certain God placed in my life for good reason. I’ve heard stories of fears and hopes, and of what happened Tuesday night to Ted. Each passing week, I strengthened relationships, created new ones, and fell deeper and deeper in admiration for our small town — something you’d never catch me saying when we moved here five years ago.

Then, last week, I woke up well before dawn, baked four dozen cookies, sliced and packaged our pies, packed up the car, and headed to the final pizza farm event of the year. As I reflect on the experience, I’m overcome with gratitude. And just as I’d had an inkling, not simply for the sale of some cookies.

Little did I know, I’d unexpectedly lose my job just a week after launching Baking with Hart — and I’d need that community more than ever before.

There’s nothing quite like the comfort of reminiscing on your own story and seeing small bits of the loving plan God had all along, just perfectly placed together. Sometimes it’s big, like the climax in your favorite action-thriller (okay, maybe I’d prefer a romantic dramedy for my life), but other times, most of the time, it’s just the tender little timing of things.

Once I began to shift my mindset, to see that my love for being alone didn’t have to mean doing life on my own, I felt a vulnerability release in me. A big exhale. When we open our lives up to others, unexpected outcomes begin to unfold. I can’t tell you what yours may be, but I can tell you this: we are each unique in our identity and gifts. When we live out our most authentic selves with openness to others, our gifts begin to naturally pour out to the world. And together, our gifts can support one another, creating more joy than we’d ever be able to achieve alone.

Now, as I turn to face a new scene, as my story continues, I’m overcome with gratitude for the community I’ve found here on Substack. While there’s no roaring flame turning out za, there is that same melting pot of people. In just barely over two weeks, I’ve connected with folks from Australia to Norway to the crawfish-lovin’ southern tip of the U.S. of A. I can’t wait to see what we can do. Together.

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Every word I share here comes from the depths of my heart, and I hope a few have found their way to yours. ❤️

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