written by Meg Martin, GM
If community organisations were people at a party, you would know exactly who was who within about 10 minutes.
Not because anyone had introduced themselves properly, but because someone would already be moving chairs.
There would be the organiser, obviously. They arrived early, know where the spare glasses are, have a mental list of who hasn't shown up yet, and are quietly annoyed that the paper towels aren't where they're meant to be. They're not technically hosting. They're just "helping", which in community-sector language usually means they'll still be there when everyone else has gone home.
Then there's the one who knows everybody. They've been around for YEARS and can connect any two people within 30 seconds. Need a bookkeeper? Talk to Sarah. Looking for a venue? They know a guy. Need three trestle tables and a gazebo by Saturday? Leave it with them. Nobody is really sure what their official role is anymore, but everyone knows to ask them first.
Across the room is the tiny organisation doing the work of a much larger one. They have three volunteers, half a staff member, a printer that only works when threatened, and an annual budget that would barely cover the catering at some corporate events. Somehow, they're delivering six programmes. Nobody is quite sure how, least of all them.
There's also the organisation that brought a folder. To a party. It contains policies, possibly minutes, and definitely a sign-in sheet. They'd like everyone to know the health and safety plan is available if required, and they've already asked whether the candles have been risk-assessed.
Near the food table, you'll find the volunteer-led group. They have brought more food than anyone asked them to bring. There are sandwiches, slices, scones, three kinds of dip....and someone made a pav. They're insistent that they "didn't do much". They have, in fact, fed the entire room.
Then someone arrives late and slightly out of breath. That's the organisation running on project funding. They apologise because they had three deadlines today, one grant application due tomorrow, and an accountability report they discovered an hour ago. They're carrying a laptop and may try to open it. Don't let them!
In the corner is the organisation that's been around forever. They know the history of everything. They remember when the building was somewhere else, when Council still had that obscure department, when funding worked differently, and when the Christmas Parade went down a completely different street in town. Mention changing anything and they go very quiet. This isn't necessarily opposition. They're simply remembering the last 7 times someone tried it.
Nearby, a newer organisation is pitching an idea. It's fresh, collaborative, and innovative. They've made a Canva graphic. The older organisations listen politely while thinking, "Yeah, we did that in 1997". Neither of them knows it yet, but they'll probably end up working together.
Then there's the organisation with the excellent social media. You assume they have a comms team. They don't. They have a Jordan. Jordan is doing Instagram on his phone between everything else. Do not lose Jordan!
At some point in the evening, someone will say, "We should all collaborate more".
Everyone nods because everyone genuinely believes it. Collaboration sounds lovely until you have to find a meeting time that works for nine different organisations. Three people can't make Tuesdays, one doesn't work Fridays, someone is away for two weeks, and the person from the national organisation can only do 8:30am on alternate Thursdays. The meeting eventually happens six weeks later. It's productive. Mostly.
There's also the organisation that came to the party looking for volunteers. They're subtle about it for approximately four minutes, then you hear, "So...what are you doing on Saturday?" Don't make eye contact, unless you're prepared to spend your weekend painting a fence.
One of the guests has money. Everyone knows. Nobody wants to be the first to approach them, so eventually someone wanders over and starts a conversation that is apparently about the weather. It's not about the weather. By the end of the night, they've heard about three programmes, two capital building projects, a van that needs replacing, and the importance of unrestricted operational funding. They're smiling though, so that's encouraging.
There's the organisation that only came because somebody told them there'd be networking. They're now trapped in a conversation about constitutions, and their smile has not wavered in twelve minutes. We wish them well.
Of course, every party has the over-committed person. They're on three boards, coach a sports team, help at the op-shop on Thursdays, deliver meals once a month, and have somehow agreed to organise the raffle. If you go over and ask how they find the time, they'll say, "Oh, it's nothing really." They're lying...make them sit down, please.
Somewhere nearby is the emergency services organisation. They know where the exits are, they've noticed a loose cable, and they're quietly assessing whether the room has enough people trained in First Aid. Everyone makes fun of them until something actually goes wrong. Then suddenly they're the most popular person at the party.
And finally, there's the small community group standing slightly off to the side. A bit of a wallflower. They don't have a flash display, they're not especially loud, and they might not be very good at explaining what they do in one tidy sentence. But...once you get talking, you realise they're solving problems most people don't even know exist.
They know the people who fall through the gaps. They know who needs a ride, who needs a meal, who's lonely, who needs an advocate, which family is struggling, where the holes in the system are, and who might be able to help. They're not doing it for attention. They're just doing it because somebody has to.
That's probably the thing about this imaginary party.
It would be chaotic. There would be too many conversations happening at once. Someone would definitely leave with the wrong serving spoon. The organiser would be stacking chairs before the final guest had finished their drink. But it would also be full of people who care deeply about where they live and the people around them.
Some are polished. Some are held together with spreadsheets and hope. Some have strategic plans. Some have Margaret and Joan.
All of them are trying, in their own way, to make the community just a little bit better.
And if that means someone ends up discussing funding applications beside the sausage rolls at 9:30pm?
Well.
That sounds about right.