I'm going to make a confession.
The act of "sharing" certain things has never been my forte. (Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, please don't smirk). Just see what happens when you take a huge chomp out of a burrito I just bought or when I realize that you borrowed my favorite dress without asking me. I hope you are aware that this vice of mine makes me feel terribly ashamed and that my penitence is genuine....It's just amusing to me that I'm going to write about this. Because, let's be honest, what do I know about this subject?! But, with that disclaimer, here we go anyway.
During those winter months when it actually snows in our town and our house is framed with Christmas-postcard-perfect snow and icicles, the snowfall inevitably coats the sidewalks of our neighborhood with thick layers of white. Then the snowplows clear the streets, spewing more snow and gritty slush onto the pathways which avid dog-walkers and reluctant school-goers alike trudge along every day regardless of the cold and bleakness of winter. Around the time of our first Christmas in that house (which happened to coincide beautifully with the first substantial snowfall), I remember that I decided to go out and shovel our large circular driveway as well as the sidewalk. Decked out in cold-weather gear that I'm pretty sure made me resemble James' Giant Peach, I spent what was maybe an excessively long period of time shoveling the sidewalk that ran the length of our lot.
Sometime in the hours that followed (when you couldn't tell that anyone had ever shoveled our driveway or sidewalk at all, let alone in recent history), I stood indoors gazing out the window and I saw one of our neighbors with a small snowblower, dutifully clearing the sidewalks of snow in front of all the neighbors' houses. For some reason I felt a surge of affection for him, a thankfulness for his neighborliness and consideration that most people don't own a snowblower or have the time or energy to shovel away the snow constantly. I don't think we had to shovel our sidewalk for the remainder of the winter.
What if we broadened our concept of "neighborhood", or of sharing in common, daily or irregular tasks? Does every home in American suburbia need to be individually equipped with all the tools and gadgets to make a household completely independent and selfishly self-sufficient, or (heaven forbid) what if we actually had to ask to borrow things from our neighbors, and loaned to them what they do not have? What if we curbed our self-absorbed anxieties and consumerism and instead loosened our parsimonious tight fists? In whatever context we find ourselves in, what if we made it our habit to conscientiously and constantly shovel the snow from our neighbors' sidewalk for them?
Back in Turkey, during the time we lived in the dormitories of a private university in Istanbul, I had retreated with my computer one morning to the basement of our building, which offered students a cold, echoey, institutional (I think in my journals I called it "austere") environment for studying with limited natural light or aesthetic joys of any kind, hard plastic lime green chairs, and internet access. I sat there, chilly and cheerless, without human connection other than that which Facebook can provide. I couldn't decide if I wanted to talk to people or if I just wanted to be alone.
Two women (evidently employees of the university) in janitorial garb came into the study lounge (if that's what the frigid, echoey hospital dungeon basement with uncomfortable chairs could be called), munching on pretzels from a snack bag and holding bardaks of çay. They began trying to speak with me in Turkish. They didn't appear to be in particularly good moods and, to be honest, I don't think I was either. Our communication failed on both ends. One of the women kept pointing to the door and asking me a question, and I thought they wanted me to leave. But then they left. When they returned to my table two minutes later it was with three boxes of different kinds of tea, a cup of hot water, and a paper bowl with pretzels in it.
Their act of sharing had a profound effect on me. I think I might have teared up, which maybe confused them a bit as I was also smiling and thanking them profusely in Turkish. I wrote later in my journal that "I was touched by their kindness and how little acts of thoughtfulness maintain a level of humanness that is a lifeline in a new and unfamiliar place." They had shoveled my sidewalk. They had shared the little that they had. They had shown me, some morose-looking, apparently anti-social American girl in her flannel pajamas, the profundity of neighborliness.
So snowblow someone's sidewalk if you own a snowblower and they own a shovel. Make tea for someone. Share your pretzels.
And I'll try not to be immoderately irritated when you take an immoderate chomp out of my burrito.
The act of "sharing" certain things has never been my forte. (Mom, Dad, if you're reading this, please don't smirk). Just see what happens when you take a huge chomp out of a burrito I just bought or when I realize that you borrowed my favorite dress without asking me. I hope you are aware that this vice of mine makes me feel terribly ashamed and that my penitence is genuine....It's just amusing to me that I'm going to write about this. Because, let's be honest, what do I know about this subject?! But, with that disclaimer, here we go anyway.
During those winter months when it actually snows in our town and our house is framed with Christmas-postcard-perfect snow and icicles, the snowfall inevitably coats the sidewalks of our neighborhood with thick layers of white. Then the snowplows clear the streets, spewing more snow and gritty slush onto the pathways which avid dog-walkers and reluctant school-goers alike trudge along every day regardless of the cold and bleakness of winter. Around the time of our first Christmas in that house (which happened to coincide beautifully with the first substantial snowfall), I remember that I decided to go out and shovel our large circular driveway as well as the sidewalk. Decked out in cold-weather gear that I'm pretty sure made me resemble James' Giant Peach, I spent what was maybe an excessively long period of time shoveling the sidewalk that ran the length of our lot.
Sometime in the hours that followed (when you couldn't tell that anyone had ever shoveled our driveway or sidewalk at all, let alone in recent history), I stood indoors gazing out the window and I saw one of our neighbors with a small snowblower, dutifully clearing the sidewalks of snow in front of all the neighbors' houses. For some reason I felt a surge of affection for him, a thankfulness for his neighborliness and consideration that most people don't own a snowblower or have the time or energy to shovel away the snow constantly. I don't think we had to shovel our sidewalk for the remainder of the winter.
What if we broadened our concept of "neighborhood", or of sharing in common, daily or irregular tasks? Does every home in American suburbia need to be individually equipped with all the tools and gadgets to make a household completely independent and selfishly self-sufficient, or (heaven forbid) what if we actually had to ask to borrow things from our neighbors, and loaned to them what they do not have? What if we curbed our self-absorbed anxieties and consumerism and instead loosened our parsimonious tight fists? In whatever context we find ourselves in, what if we made it our habit to conscientiously and constantly shovel the snow from our neighbors' sidewalk for them?
Back in Turkey, during the time we lived in the dormitories of a private university in Istanbul, I had retreated with my computer one morning to the basement of our building, which offered students a cold, echoey, institutional (I think in my journals I called it "austere") environment for studying with limited natural light or aesthetic joys of any kind, hard plastic lime green chairs, and internet access. I sat there, chilly and cheerless, without human connection other than that which Facebook can provide. I couldn't decide if I wanted to talk to people or if I just wanted to be alone.
Two women (evidently employees of the university) in janitorial garb came into the study lounge (if that's what the frigid, echoey hospital dungeon basement with uncomfortable chairs could be called), munching on pretzels from a snack bag and holding bardaks of çay. They began trying to speak with me in Turkish. They didn't appear to be in particularly good moods and, to be honest, I don't think I was either. Our communication failed on both ends. One of the women kept pointing to the door and asking me a question, and I thought they wanted me to leave. But then they left. When they returned to my table two minutes later it was with three boxes of different kinds of tea, a cup of hot water, and a paper bowl with pretzels in it.
Their act of sharing had a profound effect on me. I think I might have teared up, which maybe confused them a bit as I was also smiling and thanking them profusely in Turkish. I wrote later in my journal that "I was touched by their kindness and how little acts of thoughtfulness maintain a level of humanness that is a lifeline in a new and unfamiliar place." They had shoveled my sidewalk. They had shared the little that they had. They had shown me, some morose-looking, apparently anti-social American girl in her flannel pajamas, the profundity of neighborliness.
So snowblow someone's sidewalk if you own a snowblower and they own a shovel. Make tea for someone. Share your pretzels.
And I'll try not to be immoderately irritated when you take an immoderate chomp out of my burrito.
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