I’ve been thinking about tables lately. My father passed away in February after living his 96 years fully and generously. Creating a big table was his superpower. Everyone was welcome, and his table seemed to grow larger as he grew older.
At 90, he reluctantly agreed to let us host what he insisted be a small birthday gathering. We handed him invitations to share with a few friends. Then the responses began to arrive—more than 150 in all. What started as an intimate gathering quickly became a celebration of his extended community. I wasn’t necessarily surprised that he had so many friends; what struck me was how many I didn’t know, and how many had come into his life in recent years. Building a big table wasn’t a simple act for my father—it was his daily practice, a deeply-held value.
I’ve come to believe that my father’s longevity was closely tied to the many people he welcomed into his life. Research suggests this connection is real. In 2023, then-U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy wrote powerfully about “loneliness, isolation, and the healing power of social connection,” highlighting the undeniable impact of relationships on well-being.
This idea feels especially relevant to a community development organization like ours. We think often about the symbolism of tables. In the small communities we serve, important conversations happen around them—whether at well-worn tables in kitchens or meeting rooms, or virtual ones online. The size of the table, how it’s set, who is invited: they all matter.
Trust is built at these tables. The strongest ones can hold diverse perspectives and withstand spirited debate. The larger and more inclusive the table, the richer the conversation and more thoughtful the decisions.
And yet, in today’s climate, big and inclusive tables can feel increasingly rare. The balance between common purpose and division, between connection and exclusion, feels more tenuous than it should. This is particularly concerning for small coastal communities, where challenges are growing in both scale and urgency. At a moment like this, we need to lean into the forces that draw us together. Deep community engagement can be our shared superpower, too, but it requires intention and care to thrive. It requires daily practice.
There is reason for optimism. As Murthy reminds us, “each of us can start now, in our own lives, by strengthening our connections and relationships. Our individual relationships are an untapped resource—a source of healing hiding in plain sight.” It’s a simple but profound idea: choosing to connect is, in itself, a consequential act to build a stronger and healthier community, one that welcomes and endures.
In the beautiful poem “Perhaps the World Ends Here,” U.S. Poet Laureate Joy Harjo writes, “the gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.” Let’s keep making room at that timeless table. And like my father’s 90th birthday, perhaps we’ll be surprised—in the best possible way—by how many people show up.
Kim Hamilton is president of Island Institute, publisher of The Working Waterfront. She may be contacted at khamilton@islandinstitute.org.
“Perhaps the World Ends Here” by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
