Start with Hello: (And Other Simple Ways to Live as Neighbors)

by Shannan Martin

Paying attention to the sky taught me to bear witness to the present moment and my particular place, regardless of what they might hold. Life carries on, but this moment will never exist again. Creating a rhythm of attentiveness awakens us to possibility and tunes our hearts to the key of wonder. The sky belongs to everyone—the longest-living art installation.

Revolutions are grown from the soil of common longing,

There’s no relationship or friendship or bonus-parentship that doesn’t start somewhere thimble-size. A hello. A shared laugh. A quick helping hand. Viewed through the lens of enduring friendship, these aren’t throwaway pleasantries. They are seeds.

Beautiful lives can be tremendously sad. And sad-looking places can be tremendously beautiful.

This cultural and/or biological conditioning does us no favors and causes actual harm. It forces us apart and fences us into invisible camps where we only see each other from a distance. Unreachable, we turn inward. We retreat. And while having like-minded friends with some shared cultural shorthand can be a gift, if that is our only source of connection we wind up feeling adrift.

The condition to gravitate towards the familiar

This collective uniformity blinded me to the most basic understanding of difference. Sure, I knew not everyone in the world was just like me. But my nonexistent exposure to anyone who looked, lived, or believed differently ensured I never faced the tension of contrasting perspectives. My worldview remained safely unchecked, to the point I’m not even sure I thought of it as a worldview. It was just “the way things were.” The air I breathed. And I was poorer for it. It is our refusal to thoroughly examine these contours of life that allows evils like prejudice and racism to quietly bake into our bones. It is up to us to carefully pick through our histories and our present realities in order to uproot anything standing in the way of our wide embrace of one another.

The smallest seeds of curiosity were germinating, prompting me to ask new questions. What am I missing out on? What if “the danger” has always been a myth? Most staggering of all, Do my new neighbors see me as their “other”?

We stay quiet about our cravings, crawling into the void of the internet and Netflix, desperate to feel something and secretly wanting to be rattled.

There’s so much to gain from one another if we determine to lean in. It’s time to trade the safe uniformity of AstroTurf for a pasture of wildflowers, thick with complications and sheer captivation.

The moral of the bigger story? We don’t seek a wider embrace of the world only because we think it’s the right thing to do. We run after it because we know it’s the trap-door to the good life—samosas and party poppers included.

The next time you need help, ask for it. This is hands-down my favorite, most foolproof tip for building relationships with the people near you. As we are people taught to solve our own problems, this humble practice cuts to the heart of who we think we want to be. But remember, interdependence is the goal here. Independence is overrated, not to mention lonely. A world where we rely on each other is better, brighter, and safer.

As our culture continues to move at the speed of technology, it becomes more urgent than ever to consciously slow down and relearn how to listen. The strength of our bonds depends on it. Finding our way from passive hearing to active listening is the name of this game.

Our collective humanity is at stake when we lean in to the comforting insulation of echo chambers.

Being invited into someone’s home is an honor. It’s trust on a silver platter (or paper plate).

But just as mountains are moved by the drip of melting ice and atmospheres shift by the tenth of a degree, our perceptions of ourselves and others, of acceptability and worthiness, are shaped by the quiet consciousness of what we consume.

As our culture goads us toward autonomy and independence, our homes get incrementally quieter. We’ve become a culture defined by “personal space.” Personal everything, really. The longer this continues, the more we come to see sharing our space as intrusive. We’re nostalgic for close ties yet we uphold the silent agendas that keep our relationships locked in detachment. We fear the thing we want.ii

All of the above boils down to the prized societal virtue of independence, which can be defined as “the absence of need.” We seek a way of life where we lack nothing, yet to do so is to end up missing out on the easy solace of community.

Safe distance is never really safe. We do not grow kinder in empty rooms. Which will we choose? Fences or soup? Me or us?

It’s easier to defend a cause than it is to show up and walk with real people through the low tides of life.

This summation of Father Gustavo Gutiérrez’s message cuts straight to the heart of it: “So, you say you love the poor? Then name them.”2

When bizarre ideas flit across our consciences, let’s stop snuffing them out. No more thoughts of That would be weird or It might make them uncomfortable. I have never felt discomfited from being on the receiving end of practical kindness. Podcaster and community evangelist Erin Moon writes, “[Doing] something small will not only push against the overwhelming tide of darkness in the world, but it will push against the same tide threatening to overwhelm you.”10

I wonder, What if we chose to see these regular inconveniences as bridges rather than fences? What if, instead of losing our minds over moonlight discos or other forms of rowdy celebration, we just thought, That sounds fun! and turned up our white noise app?

In the wilds of connection empathy is our North Star.

I’m convinced staring at something small and beautiful might be the best way to survive this startling world.