Editor’s Note: This post was created from the recording of an interview which was part of the community consultation, the CHI’26 Storyfest 22-24 Sept 2026 in the Moray Art Centre (MAC).

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During COVID, right before the Community Centre (CC) burned down, I didn’t spend much time in there. There were so many weird, changing routines over COVID as people tried to keep things going. Because food and accommodation were part of our payment as Findhorn Foundation staff, the kitchen team worked really hard to provide meals. Sometimes they cooked food and gave it to us in containers, sometimes they made boxes so we could cook at home, and depending on the restrictions, we could sit in the CC at a table with one other person, with all the tables spaced far apart. It was just bizarre.

When the CC burned down, my connection to it had become a bit distant because things weren’t really happening there anymore. I didn’t miss it immediately at the time because I wasn’t going regularly. After 18 years in the Foundation, I didn’t necessarily feel like sitting through every meal chatting with people after seeing so many people throughout the day in the garden or wherever else I was working.

Thinking about it now though, and talking with others about it, the CC is actually one of the things I miss most about how everything used to be. While the sanctuary is one of the things that keeps me here, the CC was the heart of Community life. In our Foundation days, you knew every day who was cooking. You could go in anytime from 8:00 or 9:00 in the morning until 10:00 at night when the night porters would lock up. You could pop in whenever you wanted, make yourself a cup of tea, and run into people.

You knew who was cooking and what they were making. People would bump into each other and say, “Oh, you’re making that? That looks amazing—I didn’t plan to come, but can I still book a meal?” You could always sit on the couch and read the Rainbow Bridge or whatever was lying around.

I have so many memories there. Someone once asked me, “Aren’t you the girl who’s always lying on the CC couch cuddling with everybody?” Back when everything was booming, I would finish my food, go over to the couch, and someone would sit next to me. We would just cuddle up together. Looking back, it sounds funny, but I was so close to so many people that it was completely natural. I still have pictures of me on that three-seater couch squeezed in with six other people.

It was a true social hub—you just can’t compare it to going to a cafe. It was like an extended family and a close-knit community. It was so intimate because everyone knew each other so well. Looking back, it was extraordinary that we could get warm meals twice a day just for doing KP once a week!

I remember one winter—I’m not sure if I was living here yet or still on Short Term Residential (STR)—I was here for a longer stretch. It was winter, so there was hardly anybody in the CC. I walked in around 3:30 p.m. when it was nearly dark, and Swan, Iain Lapsley, and Sebastian were sitting there playing cards. Because I was staying in Cornerstone, I had just walked over in my house shoes and pajamas to join them and play cards. It felt like a communal living room outside of your own house.

I was so intimate with that building. I always loved going into the first toilet to the left—the disabled toilet. It was always warm and cosy, and I miss that toilet a lot! We used to take turns cleaning them, too.

The CC was also used for dancing, storytelling, and all kinds of events. Whenever I held workshops, if the Park Lecture Room wasn’t available, my second choice was always the Upper CC. It had that beautiful fireplace, lovely windows, and the Phoenix mosaic firebird.

I can still feel the texture and see the light of that room. There was a specific time of year when the setting sun would hit the eye of the firebird mosaic, and it would sparkle so intensely. That was so beautiful. (The eye in the new one isn’t green, but that old one was!)

I also remember coming out of the Upper CC after a session where a whole group of us did Forum. It was deeply intimate—people would strip their souls and share what was truly going on for them. I came downstairs and walked outside into the pitch dark around 10:00 p.m. It was frosty, and the way the light shone on the frost made everything sparkle so deeply and beautifully.

I have so many CC stories, and it’s interesting having all these memories flood back. Right after the fire, my primary feeling was relief that everyone survived and that not everything burned down. Because I had been here for so long and wanted a bit more privacy, I had already disconnected from the space somewhat. It took years for me to actually start talking about missing the CC. It really only started a few months ago through some conversations about what is still here for us and what keeps us here. I realised then how much the CC meant to me. It could never be the same again, though—it’s no longer a group of 150 people all living and working together for the exact same thing.

Britta Schmitz