The Umami of Community
By Patty Tacklind

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One of CFDM’s pillars—and the theme of this issue of The Third Chair—is community. When I think about my role in community, I think about hospitality. I love putting on the event or hosting the gathering that brings people together. I enjoy curating the kind of space where meaningful connections can happen, adding personal touches that make people feel seen, welcome, and at home.

For me, hospitality has to be simple—not extravagant. It shows up in pretty tablecloths (often the same ones each time), a pot of homemade soup for lunch—delicious and nourishing, made with everyday ingredients—and flowers from the garden, or maybe from Trader Joe’s, where beauty meets affordability. My goal is always to make it simple, achievable, beautiful, and inviting—with a touch of homemade heart.

And I’m always looking for the umami piece—the ingredient that makes the whole experience sing. Sometimes it’s a splash of balsamic in the soup. Or embroidered flowers on the edge of cloth napkins. Or a bottle of lemon simple syrup, made from fruit picked off the tree in the alley behind the house, shared as a parting gift.

My hope is that people leave feeling like they belong. Like they were tended to in a special way. That they experienced something personal and meaningful.

I love this vision of community. To me, it means being truly seen, known, and loved—and having the chance to see, know, and love others the same way.

But honestly, the shadow side of hospitality is that it can become a place to hide. I can stay in the role of host instead of entering as a participant—because, let’s face it, true community can be costly. Vulnerable. Even painful, once you start adding real people with real lives and complex stories. Sometimes it feels safer to keep things light and at a distance.

But something about CFDM gatherings disarms my resistance. Instead, I find myself gently ushered into genuine community—marked by honesty, depth, and vulnerability. What if listening—and this ministry of presence—is the umami ingredient we’ve all been longing for?

During the first week of spiritual direction training, people often say, “I feel like I’ve found my people.” There’s a sense of homecoming. In the quiet, contemplative space of morning prayers and imaginative exercises. In the beauty of ancient traditions from the desert mothers and fathers, St. Benedict, St. Francis. But I think the deepest homecoming comes when we hold space for one another—when we truly listen.

We don’t fix. We don’t advise. We don’t interrupt. In fact, we train ourselves not to. We listen and bear witness to what God is doing and has done. We trust that He is already at work—and that we get to share in that mystery by simply paying attention and honoring one another's stories.

Yes, the pretty tablecloths, flowers, and soup are there. And they’re lovely.

But that’s not where the umami is. The umami is in the listening. The presence. In holding each other’s complexity with reverence for who God is and how uniquely He made each person. It’s in being listened to—in the self-awareness, vulnerability, and safety that arise when someone stays present with you.

These weeks of training are grounding, centering, inspiring—and exhausting, in the best way. We are practicing the sacred work of being present to others in all its simplicity and complexity. And in that space, community emerges.

At CFDM, we long to facilitate this kind of community—a place where people are endeavoring to follow God, to become like Christ for the sake of others, and to be faithful witnesses to what God is doing. We listen. We offer companionship. We walk each other home to heaven. (Quite literally this summer, as we take a very long walk to Santiago de Compostela!) Our quiet days, silent retreats, classes, formation gatherings, and book clubs are all designed to help us love God, ourselves, and each other more deeply. Our direction training exists to equip people to witness God’s movement in the lives of others and to foster deeper connection with the people and world around them.
 

This is the kind of community I’m truly seeking. One that makes space for vulnerability. One that trusts God to be at work, without rushing to fix. One where you don’t have to rescue or perform—but instead can simply be. It’s a community that offers safety, courage, and honesty. It’s gentle. It’s welcoming. It’s the best kind of hospitality.
 

So, thank you for being part of this community. As Benedict and the brothers would say, “Thank God you’ve come.”