Catalyzing community
There are many ways to reconnect in the physical world to build thriving communities; let’s start at the table.
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I've been thinking about something for a while now—that the value of community lies in its ability to connect us to what makes us human. In this edition, I take a step toward that idea by launching a project in my community, exploring how we might come together around the shared act of eating our way to better health. I'm continuing to conceive this newsletter as a field guide for community innovators—not to identify flora or fauna, but to notice the subtle signals of possibility that might lead us toward innovation. It invites us to see what's working, what's not, what's missing, and what we can find.
Seeking purpose
Carol and I are exploring Albuquerque, attempting human connections by meeting workers, owners, and chefs, and by looking for growers, learning history, riding trails, walking with petroglyphs, eating local, and experiencing art. We are contrasting what we sense here with our trip to Baja and our home in Colorado. There is a vibe, but also something more—a rhythm, perhaps. Something that makes a community work. Maybe this is it: Vibes are what a community makes you feel; rhythm is how a community helps you heal.
We are always healing. Or should be. Our bodies and minds turn over, replacing old cells and thoughts with new ones, undoing damage, and growing stronger. Our experiences with digital technologies only deepen that need for healing. They stretch and constrict us, rubber banding us, all at once, all the time. Digital tech shoves us into virtual and augmented worlds, smashing us with both unfiltered and curated experiences, trolls and feeds, flooding us with knowledge—or at least, information. Our brains are activated, but our humanity is diminished. We are narrowed. We see and hear, but we don't taste, or touch, or smell. We move through digital realms alone, accompanied by video imagery, encountering people as shallow shades–without the visceral embodied presence of fellow humans.
Here’s something: Community science heals.
Community science is an antidote to computer science, or a remedy—maybe a therapy. Digital tech creates value by doing things for us—offering entertainment, escape, convenience, and speed—improving our existence by making life easier and more efficient. But maybe communities create value by giving us the opportunity to connect humanly, helping us heal—physically and emotionally. Strengthening us. Helping us reach our potential. Touch lowers blood pressure. Social bonds boost immunity. Work leads to dignity. Purpose to happiness. Real engagement, born of shared purpose and striving, heals.
If that’s true, we can make communities better. We can innovate.
But first, we must see.
Making connections
Connections—the ones we need as humans—can be easy to miss when we move too fast through a too-familiar world. But they're there, hidden in plain sight, in everyday interactions with people, places, and things. A first draft of a field guide for noticing human connections follows, offered because we're more likely to see what matters when we know where to look.
Imagine yourself as a naturalist—not walking in the wild but through your community. And searching not for plants or animals but for connections. I offer seven: connections with others and with yourself and connections with food, water, energy, work, and place. Each is defined not by theory but by what you experience when you're humanly connected. That's the lens I'm offering. Let's begin.
Connecting with others. Human connection happens when people feel seen, not scanned. When you're heard without having to shout and known beyond your digital profile or post. You'll sense it in laughter shared around a table, spontaneous help from a neighbor, and conversations that carry weight. It shows up as trust, a creative spark, and invisible threads that bind. Where connection is missing, suspicion grows, institutions feel brittle, and loneliness clings.
Connecting with yourself. We connect with ourselves when the distractions dim and our inner voice rings true. You'll recognize it in the clarity of knowing what you care about, what you need, what you can give. You'll feel it in the ease of saying no, in the calm that returns when you stop pretending. Without that grounding, it's easy to drift, forget what matters, and lose the plot of your true story.
Connecting with food. When meals carry memory, ingredients come with people's names and growers' places. It's there in the gratitude you feel for a tomato grown nearby, in the care of a home-cooked dish, in the ritual of gathering. You'll notice how it reshapes your choices—how you shop, cook, eat, gather, and converse. Disconnection makes food feel cheap and empty. Connection makes it sacred.
Connecting with water. Water just is. We encounter it in rivers that flow, rain that falls, and snow that drifts. We sense it in mist, fog, and hail, and in sleet, spit, and slop. In deserts, we covet. In disregard, we pollute. But we can’t create water; we can only protect. Connecting with water means feeling its presence, naming its source, and honoring its purity.
Connecting with energy. When we see where it comes from, where it goes, and how it's stored and drained, energy becomes something we can connect to. You'll see it in the wires overhead, the panels on roofs, the gas at a pump, and how the wind moves across a landscape. You'll wonder about rights and privilege—who benefits and who pays. Connecting with energy fosters stewardship and sustainability. Without it, energy becomes something we consume without thinking, costing us more than we know.
Connecting with work. Connecting with work is about creativity and discipline, purpose and meaning. It's the pride of building something real, the satisfaction of contributing to something larger than yourself. It's about showing up–being up to the task, being an artisan, crafting something that matters. You'll feel it when your labor is valued for what it produces and how it improves the world around you. Disconnected, work becomes a grind—something that drains you instead of nourishing you.
Connecting with place. In the digital age, physical place matters. It matters when it feels like it remembers you. When there is pride. When the streets greet you, the landscape shapes your habits, and your stories take root in soil. Place becomes part of your identity—something you care for and that cares for you. We feel unmoored when this bond is broken, as if life is happening in a weightless space where we don't quite belong.
There you have it. See connections. Sense them. Feel them. Notice the change they create—how they heal, how they strengthen. And now that we can see, we know what to value, protect, and nurture. We begin to see possibilities. This is how communities flourish. This is how they innovate.
Finding a way forward
I've been casting around for a way to catalyze a community, to mobilize for innovation. I imagine a local effort that draws on grassroots energy, government support, business and charity, extending into every block, neighborhood, apartment building, and HOA. In a recent conversation between Mark Hyman and Bari Weiss on her podcast, Honestly, I heard something that clicked. Hyman is a doctor, author, policy advocate, and founder of Function Health, a company built to help people live 100 healthy years by turning awareness into action—starting with what we eat.
What if a community—my community, and maybe yours—decided to eat its way to better health and well-being?
We all eat. We all face health issues, or will, as we age. Food is universal. And by connecting with our food, we might open the door to something bigger: a community project that links us not only to what we eat but to each other, to ourselves, to the water that fills us, to the energy that powers us, to the work that gives us meaning, and to the place we call home.
One table, many seats.
I will take this on in my backyard—here in Colorado Springs, where I live and write. Starting with my next edition and continuing through many to come, I'll explore what it might look like for a community to eat its way to better health. I'll look for ideas, partners, and resources. And I'll widen my lens, too, seeking out examples from other communities, connecting across geographies.
I know I'll need a plan to guide this effort—a framework big enough to hold ambition and practical enough to shape real action. That's where I turn to Julio Ottino, who calls for a reconvergence of art, science, and technology to do great things in today's epoch times. In The Nexus, he argues that innovation doesn't happen in silos. It emerges when different ways of knowing—creative, analytical, technical—are braided together to unlock something new.
Here's how I'll start:
For art, I'll turn to the power of film—not just as storytelling but as a tool for awakening. Film can help us build awareness, foster shared purpose, and imagine a way forward that people can see, feel, and believe in.
For science, I'll use ChatGPT to help me find the research, read the sources, and reason through what applies. Science is more accessible than ever, shared through journals, open data, and podcast conversations like Stanford University's The Future of Everything.
For technology, I'll lean into Wolcott and Krippendorff's concept of Proximity—the clearest path I see for leveraging technology in the service of humans, not to transform industries but to innovate communities.
I'd love to hear from you if you're doing something similar, or want to. If this newsletter—reimagined as a field guide for community innovation—is helpful, let me know. Leave a comment, message me, or reach out directly at mark.dancer@n4bi.com.
Together, let's build thriving communities—one innovation at a time.