I had brunch this morning at Baja Bistro with an intueri reader. (In his former life, this fellow was a staff writer for a well-known, major publication—my mind still boggles a bit with the knowledge that people of that writing caliber routinely read my writing.) I had hoped to sample the scrambled eggs with cactus (as (1) I have never eaten cactus and (2) then I could say that I’ve eaten cactus specifically in Seattle), but the dish was apparently unavailable. The huevos a la Mexicana were not disappointing. Tasty corn tortillas.

Our conversation eventually wandered over to writing. I expressed frustration with my seemingly ongoing lack of inspiration.

“It’s not that I don’t have ideas—there are plenty things to write about. I just don’t think anyone would care to read them. I don’t think *I* would care to read them,” I lamented. I then offered some paltry reasons to further support my wobbly assertion and ultimately noted, “I just don’t think that I’m writing anything that isn’t already being said somewhere else. What contributions am I making to the literature?”

He looked at me, exasperated.

After some discussion with him and then some private reflection later, I wondered specifically about the idea of community. Some people magnify their roles within a community; they may perceive that they are more influential than is accurate. Others may minimize their participation, suggesting that they are superfluous for a variety of reasons.

Such are group dynamics.

I think I’ve expounded upon interconnectivity and interdependence here before. I’ve used the example that the entire universe is contained within one chocolate chip cookie (just wait for it…). The flour used in cookies results from energy from the Sun, nourishment from the Earth (probably somewhere in California), and rain water that has arguably travelled around the world (due to trade winds, precipitation patterns, etc.). The same ideas apply for the cacao beans (which may or may not have come from South America) and sugar (Hawaii). Eggs represent the poultry factor (and how long have chickens roamed the Earth?). A threshing machine harvested the wheat. Where was the steel mined to fashion the blades? Where was the machine assembled? The machine was developed from whose plans from how long ago? Perhaps the machine was assembled in the Midwest; maybe a 49 year-old man who was mourning the loss of his wife ensured that the engine would function within normal parameters.

I don’t know if that is true, but if it is, that means that this 49 year-old man contributed to my experience of eating a cookie.

So then there’s the cookie factory, right? (Unless *I* am the cookie factory, which is occasionally true.) An architect designed plans for the factory; someone designed the vats and mixers and conveyor belts within the factory; someone helped to manufacture the hair nets the employees wear as they are making cookies. Inspector 23 might be a 35 year-old woman who wanted to become an opera singer, but an unexpected child foiled her plans.

Could it be that she cast an annoyed and perhaps despondent eye upon the cookie that I would ultimately eat?

Then there’s the paper that forms the bag that holds the cookies. What tree produced that paper? In what region of the country was the tree rooted? And if the paper is of the recycled variety, what paper products contributed to the bag? Discarded love notes? Last year’s newspaper? The “Escort” section from the yellow pages? Who read those lines of text before the paper was sent to the mill (where, again, people facilitated the recycling…) for turnover?

Someone then loaded the bag of cookies onto a truck. Someone drove the truck (powered by gasoline, which represents fossil fuels dating back to who knows when) across city streets and traffic lights (which are derivatives of ideas of electricity from Thomas Edison and Benjamin Franklin…) to the market.

A grocer (a thoughtful, handsome fellow who has run four marathons? a new mother with blonde hair, small eyes, and a bright smile?) then placed the bag on a shelf (constructed from metal obtained from some distant locale, etc. etc. etc.).

And I eventually procured the cookies.

Do I think about the 49 year-old man who inspected the engine of the threshing machine when I eat my cookie? Nope. Does that mean that his role is superfluous? Nope. Of course, there are other inspectors for other machines, but, arguably, in inspecting the safety of that specific machine, he played a notable role in my consumption of confections.

It is a large community that produces a single cookie.

And perhaps I minimize my role within the blogosphere, medical or otherwise.