Every few months or so, our church puts together an event that they call "7 at 7." This means that on a designated Saturday evening, seven people gather at someone's home for a potluck dinner. The purpose is to get to know people in the church whom you don't know very well. During service, they pass around a notepad, and you can sign up to be a host or a guest if you're interested. We're fairly new in this church, so we signed up to be hosts. Five people, some of whom we had met, and some of whom we had not, came to dinner last Saturday night, providing us with one of the most enjoyable evenings we've had in a long time.

Everyone was engaged, interested, and enthusiastic. The conversation wandered from the mundane, to parenting styles, to spiritual topics. But most importantly, we all learned something about everyone. Everyone felt safe, and everyone shared their real selves. And therein lies the magic of gathering people around your table. We now feel a real connection with the people who broke bread with us, and our world just got larger and better for it.

John Donne said, "No man is an island, entire of itself." And yet, so many of us believe that we are. In America, in particular, we seem to believe that it's a badge of honor not to need anyone's help. I have encountered many people who have chosen to suffer and struggle alone rather than ask for a hand. In her more spry youth, my wife, who has a disability, freely admits that she would rather grit her teeth and push her body to its limit just to prove that she could be independent. And as for myself, I definitely had that disease. I came by it honestly.

My parents never had many close friends. As a family, we were very insular. We did everything ourselves. If we needed help, we turned to my father's parents. We did not ask for outside help, and we certainly never offered it. Volunteering was not in our vocabulary. And if someone we knew clearly needed a little extra assistance (such as a cooked meal, help mowing their lawn, or a car ride to the doctor), it often did not occur to my parents to offer it. It's not that they were bad people; it just escaped their notice. They had trouble seeing beyond themselves.

Not too surprisingly, then, I had to learn to expand beyond myself, too. I had the impulse already, but I lacked the training. All I really had to go on was my heart, so I followed it. In college, I did not pass by the homeless. If I had change, I gave it to them. It was a gift; they could do with it whatever they wanted. One day, I had nothing except a bag of cookies that would otherwise have been thrown away after my shift at work, so when a woman asked me for some change, I gave her the cookies. I have no doubt that she needed them more than I did.

When I was older and making a good living, I donated to charity each year, which made me feel good, but it didn't help me move beyond myself, really. Still, it was a step in the right direction—I don't remember my parents ever donating to charity, except perhaps to Salvation Army bell ringers at Christmas.

So I was doing a better job of learning to give, but what about receiving? It's easy to feel like a hero for giving, but it's much harder to accept from others. It feels selfish somehow. And selfish is "bad," we are told. But is it selfish to receive?

Everything must have balance. If you give and give from your well, sooner or later, it will dry up, and you will be left with nothing for yourself, and nothing to share. You must replenish your own waters. Sacrificing everything for others is not balanced. It is just as much an act of ego to sacrifice yourself without receiving as it is to receive without giving in return. Give, yes; but you must receive as well.

A few years ago, I used to meet up with friends at conventions. Among the friends were some people who sold books, and we were regular customers. We always went out to dinner with them, and I always managed to grab the bill and pay it before they had a chance. The last time I did that, the wife took me aside and explained that it really meant a lot to them to treat us, since we were their customers. They wanted to say thank you, and I wasn't allowing them to do that. And then I got it:  sometimes, you can give too much. And then it isn't giving any more. I needed to allow my friends to reciprocate and feel like equals in the relationship.

I'm getting much better at the give and take now. Serendipitously, one of our guests at the 7 at 7 had a need for some work, and we had a need for someone to do some work. Coincidence? Hardly. We not only made a new friend, but we were able to help one another fulfill our needs. And this is what it's all about.

I've written about our economy healing, and this is one of the ways in which it must heal. We can't live like islands any more. We must come together and support one another. We must remember and re-envision the village:  everyone has a skill or a gift to contribute, and everyone has needs that must be met. There is something here for everyone. In fact, there's more than enough to help those who can give as well as those who no longer have the capacity to contribute in a material way. There is enough. There always has been.

In the end, we learn to move beyond ourselves when we can connect with others—really connect. This means listening, suspending judgment, and opening our hearts. Everyone has a story. Everyone has a purpose. Everyone has something to contribute. Everyone matters.

For me, moving beyond myself meant being active in the process of creating more community for myself. Our community is our support network. Our community is a continent, the whole of all these island selves. And I am building my continent, one dinner party at a time.

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