I stop at a gap in the thick hedgerow and lean on a gate, which is held by the soil, which in turn is held by the bedrock of this place. I am trying to feel this too, to believe it – that I am held by this place. From here, I look across the rolling Devon landscape, back to our village: the cottages and school, the pub and playing field, the village hall which bears traces of what community has meant to this place. I wonder what clues it holds about the literal and figurative village that it will supposedly take to raise my daughter. I want to know where this village is because I am also anxious. I am anxious about where online spaces are taking us, about what AI will mean for my daughter and the world, about the rapid deterioration of the climate. I want to know my daughter will be OK facing the uncertainty of a fraying social and environmental fabric. I want her to know who her neighbor is, what it means to belong, how to swap a measure of independence for shared rhythms and care.

I am trying to work this out for myself too – how to accept the invitation to community, how to reconcile my restless heart and my desire to belong.