No Longer Anonymous: On Seeing (and Being Seen By) Your Neighborhood
Editor’s Note: This week, we are publishing several articles on the essential role food and the food economy play in building stronger and more financially resilient communities. Follow along with all the articles from Strong Towns Food Week here!
Photo by Nathália Rosa on Unsplash
I was standing in line at our local grocery store, head down and reaching into the cart to unload my milk jug and cucumbers onto the conveyor. I don’t know what it is, but I always seem to act as though I’m anonymous as I roll up and down the aisles, like I’m doing an unseen task with all the other invisible people. It turns out that I’m not. In a moment I looked up to see that the young woman behind the counter is a friend. I looked over my shoulder and made eye contact with the person behind me: a neighbor. With another hello I realized that the person who had been in front of me the whole time knew my name. Like a friendly neighborhood Bermuda Triangle, I was caught. Or rather, I was known. I was in a store with others who would have thought, “Oh, that’s Preston over there!” After chatting with all three, I left the store with my groceries and a sense of belonging. Here, in my neighborhood, I am real.
What is “real?” Everyday we pass by or around our neighbors, eyes-on-the-road as we shoot by homes, people, and stories that may mean virtually nothing to us. We live, at least functionally, as though little of true importance, substance, or value lives nearby. It’s not that we don’t care. We do. But most days, in most ways, neighbors might as well be theoretical. Names are non-essential and the person waiting in the grocery line is just a momentary intrusion on our comings and goings. People, to us, are not real because they don’t really have to be.
This all occurred to me when I was sitting far way from my own neighborhood in an airport. Airports are the opposite of my garden. My garden is unique, growing, and a place for friends; airports are none of these things. Some sociologists call airports in-between places, or liminal spaces. People do not stay there. They pass through on their way from Calgary to New York, or some other more interesting place. Travelers are transient. They zip by and carry on. Our goal is to catch our flight, not to chat it up with the security guard waving a metal detector around our ankles. Everyone we meet along the way either helps or hinders this singular purpose. People are useful or useless, but never to be known. It is only when we are finally sitting in our seat that we dare say “hello.”
Photo by Matthew Cooksey on Unsplash.
This strange superpower to live above the reality of my place and neighbors impacts me and my ability to live well. Malcolm Guite, a favorite poet of mine, wrote, “We surf the surface of a wide-screen world, And find no virtue in the virtual.” Whether we are scrolling on a screen, pushing through a crowded airport, or driving along the streets of our neighborhood, we have become unwittingly skillful at overlooking others. Our immediate surroundings in our home, or at our desk or workstation, might be real, but the people around us, our neighbors, stay virtual. It’s easier that way. When something is not real to you, it doesn’t matter.
Harry Overstreet wrote that “to the immature, other people are not real.” When we live with our eyes only on our own lives, we do not see others as the very real people that they are. Without the right eyes to see, people can become like any other passing thing: unimportant and meaningless.
But those of us alert to the real people we see can come alive with new purpose. Neighbors who know and care for the people around them see and experience their community differently than those who just pass through. Yes, people are messy and strange, but when they become real to us, we make a discovery about them, and ourselves.
Recently two of my neighbors experienced a backyard accident. As I heard one neighbor recount the story I was not sure where she was going with it. Was the tone in her voice good or bad? I couldn’t quite tell. Then she said, “We talked it through and it’s going to be ok. We’re working it out. We love them.” These neighbors were not strangers and they cared about the outcome for each other. They knew the complexities and navigated them with kindness and maturity. When they look across the street or over the fence they see real people with real names and a real story. Neighbors that do not know each do not easily extend this kind of grace.
“Pride makes us artificial, humility makes us real,” wrote Thomas Merton. Stepping into a place where we can risk the joy of loving our neighbors transforms pride into humility. Humility says, "I see you and you are real to me.” Humility invites us to turn from our busyness to stop and see the people on our street.
As a gardener, I’ve come to appreciate the realness of my growing garden. My strawberries are varied in size and shape and they are not perfect like those bought in the plastic packaging in the store. But to eat strawberries with giggling little girls, red juice dripping down our chins, is heaven. This place, my garden, is real. And to those who draw near, it is lovely. The more I engage with it, the more it seems like it might be a work of art in my life. My garden, from seeds to bees, is teaching me to enjoy, see, know and love.
My neighbors are real in this way, too. Walking on the sidewalks with their dogs or yanking grocery bags from the back of their vehicles, these are not perfect people, but they are good. And as I step out, I discover that my neighborhood is much more real still. This place and the people who live near me are good and, in spite of all their imperfection, they are worth knowing. Each person I’ve come to know is a gift, and they are changing me.
About the Author
Dr. Preston Pouteaux is a beekeeper, neighbourhood enthusiast, pastor at Lake Ridge Community Church and the director of Plesion Studio. He is an engaging speaker, writer, and curator of conversations about faith and neighbourhoods. He is the award-winning author of The Bees of Rainbow Falls: Finding Faith, Imagination, and Delight in Your Neighbourhood (Urban Loft Publishers), and author of The Neighbours Are Real and Other Beautiful Things (Plesion Studio). Since 2015 his column, Into the Neighbourhood, has been printed over two millions times in weekly newspapers. Preston lives in Chestermere, Alberta, with his wife Kelly, their daughters Scotia and Ivy, and a few thousand honeybees.
For 45 years, this Denver organization has been seeding community, one garden at a time.