I’m living my best commune life in the ’burbs. Nudity aside, I think we’re onto something

From ashrams to monasteries and even the mythical mould-free share house, humans have always been drawn to the promise of cohabitation.

We like the idea of an “intentional community”, a space where like-minded individuals can live together and share lives, belongings, ideas, potentially sexual partners and frolic (potentially naked) unbounded by the trappings of capitalism and social expectations.

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, John Lennon, Cynthia Lennon, Jane Asher and Paul McCartney living a communal lifestyle in India in 1968.Credit: Colin Harrison/Avico/BritBox

But when it comes to actually casting off said shackles (and clothes if you choose to go down that route), few have the commitment to follow through. We like our space, our control, our chemical deodorant. Also, you know, a seemingly endless number of documentary series on cults, mass brain-washings and murder sprees haven’t really helped the commune cause.

Until last year, I wouldn’t have considered myself a commune sort of girl. Honestly, even just sharing a bathroom with the person I love was already a challenge. Then something occurred to shift my thinking – some friends, another couple, moved in a few houses down from me and my partner.

To be fair, living on the same street as your mates is a much looser interpretation of cooperative living than a full-scale commune. But while we’re not sharing a bathroom, the core ideals remain the same.

Beyond the usual good neighbour fare – guarding spare keys, feeding pets, etc – we see each other multiple times a day. Gossip, meals, lawnmowers, utensils, daily stresses, chores, petty grievances and half-finished bottles of wine are constantly shared. Doorbells go un-rung, shoes unworn. It’s as common to drop by in pyjamas as it is jeans.

The four of us were close before they moved in, but now we enjoy the kind of half-formed inner language of siblings. Conversations drop off and pick up halfway through a point as we wander down the road and out of earshot, only to be continued seconds later in our group chat. We already had a young child when they unpacked their boxes, and as soon as our friends moved in she inherited a second set of parents (and we, the support of a second set of hands).

Her usual stranger hangups dissolved with them. Suddenly, we weren’t the only ones who could put her to bed, get her to eat or soothe her after a fall. A few weeks ago, they had their own baby and my partner and I immediately began referring to her as our second-born. Old carriers and newborn gear were pulled out of storage as we prepared to raise another child as a group.

I’ll pause here to acknowledge that if you’re say, over 50, this revelation could seem deranged. What I describe as some kind of counter-cultural revolution is essentially just a neighbour. Living close to someone who generally cares whether you live or die shouldn’t be a life-changing event. For millennia, societies have understood the social and security advantages of having friends and family close by and forming friendships with those who live around you. But I’d guess if you’re under 40 that arrangement might be less of a given. It was a premise we grew up watching countless sitcoms and dramas structured around, sure, but as we entered adulthood ourselves, this idea became more fiction than fact.

Before an unexpected collision of luck, hard work, sacrifice and forced pandemic savings allowed my partner and I to buy a small home in a suburb I’d hardly heard of, we’d braved decades of residential instability. Together and apart we’d trudged through volatile share houses, crumbling apartments and fragile sublets. Leases expired and landlords changed their minds too frequently for any real local connections to be formed. When we did engage with our neighbours it was usually via passive-aggressive WhatsApp groups where renters and owners argued over other people’s Airbnb guests.

Like so many innocuous parts of life that our parents hardly gave a second thought, neighbours – that is, the kind you can know for longer than 12 months or a couple of years and really get to know – have quietly become something of a luxury. A privilege granted to people who didn’t only have secure enough housing to establish roots, but also the mental space to ask someone about their camellias. And like other vanishing luxuries (education without debt, a good GP who bulk bills, petrol under a $1 per litre) I didn’t really have a sense of what was missing until I randomly stumbled upon it.

I was conscious that the volatility and isolation of urban living stressed me out, but less clear on what had actually been taken. There’s security, and privilege, in knowing you will live in the same house next year. In building a sense of home that extends beyond your own property line and encompasses other people who also feel secure and settled.

And, of course, as with many privileges, the privilege of loving your neighbours shouldn’t be a privilege at all. It should be a right available to all Australians. As obvious and ordinary as a friend who lives close enough to visit in pyjamas.

Wendy Syfret is a freelance writer based in Melbourne and author of The Sunny Nihilist.

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