In-Season: Potatoes
Whether boiled, mashed, roasted, steamed, fried or baked, potatoes have become an integral part of American cuisine, and for good reason. I like to think of them as shapeshifters. These spuds can be p...
Stepping Stones
Fourteen years ago, we blew into the neighborhood like spent pumpkin seeds falling on fertile soil. As a multicultural family, we longed for a place that valued difference and were hopeful we had found it. Back then, my days were an exhausting blur of working and caring for our three young kids. There never seemed to be enough hours for the ordinary demands of our days, much less for cultivating new friendships in a town where we were starting from scratch.
Still, I couldn’t ignore the dull ache of loneliness. I joined the PTA and the neighborhood association. We began attending a nearby church. We said yes to every invitation and embraced the inevitable awkwardness of being a newcomer. These new rhythms helped us find our footing, yet curiously, the most consequential shift happened when I started taking more walks through the neighborhood. As my feet traced the same routes day after day, I began to memorize the lay of this land. Familiarity brought a growing sense of responsibility to help make this place the best it could be. Slowly, I became attuned to its abundant beauty. As I let myself fall in love with this corner of the city, I discovered the ways it was already loving me back.
Moving into a new home changed the scenery of my life.
Discovering I belong here changed everything.
Recently, on one of my walks, I crossed paths with a woman for the first time. After a tentative hello, we chatted street-side about everything from the finicky soil to our shared good fortune at calling this place home. As the Indiana summer ripened, we shared tomatoes, beans and berries. Eventually we traded phone numbers. Once, when my family couldn’t find our cooler for one last trip to the beach, our new friend swooped in and saved the day.
Over the years, we have been glad recipients of carne asadas and invitations to birthday parties. We have come together as neighbors to send flower arrangements to funeral homes and found creative ways to support one another in loss.
Most of life exists outside these extremes, in mundane moments. My neighbors have watched my kids in a pinch and gathered the mail when we were out of town. Recently, one of them came to my rescue when I threw out my back. Another brought me a piece of homemade cheesecake last week, just because. We bear the debt of living in a place so lovely and kind. As fall arrives, we dig up peony roots to share, hoping to offset the balance.
Night arrives earlier these days, shooing everyone into the cozy glow of our separate kitchens. Through the long, Midwestern sleep, we will cherish every bundled-up wave as we wait for spring’s thaw. I’ll take walks when I’m able, contented by the warmth flickering from familiar windows, grateful we are all just a shout away.
We arrived here on little more than a hunch. We stay for the warmth and curiosity of the people near us. Now I am sure–we don’t have to settle for low-grade loneliness and disconnection. The solution waits just outside the door.
There is no such thing as a trivial connection. Every gesture expands, over time, into something greater. I learned this secondhand from the generous people who taught me to risk being vulnerable for the sake of being known. It turns out passing brownies and tamales across property lines can bridge language barriers. Sharing ladders, sun-ripened figs and basic trust can squash minor grievances before they take root.
Belonging is like a garden, each tiny seed growing into abundance as we share the earth and air. Belonging is like a patchwork quilt, our unique threads stitched into something sturdy and secure.
Take a walk. Say hello. Ask for help.
Home is where we build belonging, not just for ourselves but for everyone.
Shannan Martin, author of Start with Hello and The Ministry of Ordinary Places, is a speaker and writer who found her voice in the country and her story in the city. Shannan works as a cook at The Window, a local nonprofit dedicated to feeding its community. She and her family live as grateful neighbors in Goshen, Indiana.
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