Sunlit forests, gentle brooks, majestic storm clouds, vibrant sunsets—these are just a few of the breathtaking scenes painted by the Hudson River School artists of the mid-19th century. By sharing Romanticism-inspired depictions of our region’s natural splendor, the painters created lasting odes that have helped inspire others to help with conservation efforts so that future generations could enjoy the same stunning scenes in-person.
Today, ask residents what they love most about the Hudson Valley and you’ll receive myriad responses, many of which center around the same ideals as the aforementioned artists: the parks and outdoor recreation, the views of the Catskills from the Hudson, the strong arts and culture presence, rolling pastures that yield farm-to-table cuisine unlike anywhere else—and then reapply the same responses under an autumnal lens. There’s nothing quite like a Hudson Valley harvest season with apples plucked fresh from the orchard, country roads flanked by fiery foliage, and community festivals that will perhaps resume next year.
But there’s an often-overlooked aspect of our region that truly makes it unique to other areas across the state, and that’s the community—the people who live here.
I say this knowing that the folks who live throughout the valley are vastly diverse, and it’d be futile to try and lump everyone into a single categorical description; each town, city, and hamlet has its distinct charms and tragedies, beauty and suffering, quirks and jerks. It happens too often that the region is idealized—homogenized—to fit a whimsical travel-magazine description, especially in a way that often leaves out marginalized groups. At the same time, all one needs to do is read the comments on any local online news source or Facebook group to find a spectrum of differing opinions and values. But spend enough time with anyone and you’ll typically find common ground; different threads woven to create a larger tapestry.
So, what is it that pulls us together?
Human connection is the balm that soothes our rough edges and it shows up in countless ways: That coffeeshop employee who remembers your order. The barber who doles out life advice. The health practitioner who celebrates your wins. The restaurateur who remembers your family milestones. The essence of Trail Magic: That instance of passing a fellow hiker going the opposite direction, as you exchange a knowing gleam-in-the-eye smile—perhaps hidden by a mask these days, but there nonetheless—and sometimes shows up as a kind stranger offering map guidance, a bottle of water, a spritz of bug spray, or a granola bar for your kiddo, just when it’s needed. Perhaps it’s simply endorphins that lift the moods of trail travelers, or the tendency to feel better when surrounded by nature, but it’s there—an unspoken understanding shared with another person. The trail is a connector in more way than one.
In the same vein, it’s often a common struggle that unites us. To use recent examples, just look to the eager volunteers who put together brown-bag lunches for local families affected by pandemic school- and work-closures, or the concerned citizens who busied their hands making cloth masks for charity. It’s been inspiring to see neighbors helping neighbors with unconditional care—to the folks who volunteered, it didn’t matter who would receive that food or wear that mask, as long as people in the community who were struggling to remain fed and protected were taken care of.
This type of connection is especially important during a time when differing beliefs, especially in the form of online arguments, are dividing us more than ever—on social media, we learn too much. We see others’ dark thoughts, deep secrets, bad moods, and plain ol’ ignorance on display and reactions are often thumb-typed on a mobile device before taking a moment to truly consider an appropriate reaction—how one might react to the same conversation in-person. But the suggestion that social networking has diminished social connection is not new, and though these digital platforms have brought us together in various ways, they have a tendency to rip us apart. There’s a toxic environment that thrives online and it’s easy to get caught up in the swamp, shaking our heads or fists at the blatant sludge of disrespect spewing from friends-of-friends with differences of opinion or values, largely rooted in bogs of misunderstanding and pride.
At some point, we have to come up for air.
When we do, we seek the support of profound connection within a tangible community that a device can’t provide—and sometimes we find it without realizing.
In a personal example, I lived in Woodstock when Hurricane Irene swept through the region. I was in a state of starting-over, having just moved into a small apartment in the heart of the village two months prior, and decided to stick around to ride out the storm. I recall the powerful wind; the flooding brook that surrounded the property and crept toward my front deck; the churning sound of what some say was a touch-down twister. I vividly remember the eye passing over—moments of glistening sunshowers and shortly after, a pause from the rain—as I ventured outside to assess the damage along Tinker Street, Woodstock’s main drag of shops and cafes. Branches and leaves were strewn across the road, clogging storm drains, and a few of us started cleaning, knowing the returning storm would bring more debris, more flooding. When the rain resumed and we made our way back. But before entering my apartment, I looked around the property; something was off. Two neighbors whom I’d never spoken with gazed at me with sympathetic expressions. After a few seconds of mental gear-turning, I realized that my car was missing. While I was out, one large tree among the border of trees surrounding the property had fallen on my car, crushing it from hood to trunk.
As I processed what happened, one neighbor offered to look up the number of my insurance agency so I could get on the phone with them as soon as possible. Another offered to make a comforting mug of tea. In the coming days, one neighbor even proposed the use of her car so that I could commute to work. Kind acts were bestowed from unexpected places. At a time when it would’ve been so easy to feel alone, I felt community.
Perhaps we don’t intuitively know everything about the folks we meet in person, as we can instantly learn online with a few clicks. That doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate these real-time moments of human connection. Despite how the Hudson Valley is depicted in those historic Hudson River School paintings—or by modern-day Instagram influencers—this beautiful region is not a utopia. For all its inspiring magnificence, it has flaws. It has deep wounds, historical hiccups, and ongoing strife. But to thrive in a community requires the same as any other relationship: give and take and a shared compass pointed toward a greater good—and we largely see that here.
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