Outside a small corner store in Waiheke Island, the kind you stop at after a dog walk for a flat white, there’s a noticeboard. A corkboard, pinned full … Dog walkers, builders, wellness practitioners annnnnd nn intuit. No cards were overlapping and it felt like no one was shouting for attention.

Standing there, I realised I was using the board to answer a quiet question I hadn’t said out loud yet.. Who are you, here, and what kind of place have I arrived in?

This note drifts through that noticing, not to explain the community, but to listen to it. To read a place through what people offer, how they make space for one another, and what’s absent as much as what’s pinned up. It’s a reflection on arrival, on belonging, and on the small, unglamorous ways communities reveal their values, often before you’ve spoken to anyone at all.

Thanks, as always, for listening. Annnnnnnd thanks for drifting with me.

Is there an object, a sound, or a small public thing in your world that feels like it’s holding stories long after you’ve gone?

If you had a small rectangle of cork and one thumbtack, what would you offer your community right now … honestly, quietly, without trying to impress?

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