My refrigerator currently contains another woman’s food — my across-the-street neighbor to be exact. It’s a so-called inconvenience I wouldn’t trade for the world. Long ago in a different house with a different refrigerator, my husband and I celebrated our daughter’s first birthday with our extended families. Weeks later, I loaded my seven-month pregnant belly on an airplane and relocated my family of three (soon to be four) to Southern California — Victorville, to be exact, for anyone who may be confusing this with a desirable location. The high desert with 100-degree days featured rocks, so many of them. And it was thousands of miles from both our families.
Fast forward 17 years and four moves later, after dwelling near beaches, mountains, swamps and corn fields. I sherpa’d babies cross-country on both pre-and post-9/11 flights. Before our first move, I remember my grandmother saying, “Family is the four of you, no matter where you live.” Her words rang true during each relocation. Mostly.
After arriving in Southlake, I found myself needing more than my foursome could provide. I craved an extended community, like my friends and family four states ago. But just wishing things were different wasn’t changing anything (Did it ever?), so putting wishes aside, I let go and dug in.
I asked for phone numbers, said yes to invitations and waved at every car, runner and dog-walker who passed. And in time — so much time — the desire to know and be known started to feel attainable, baby step by baby step.
Like most things of value, my current community wasn’t created overnight. New relationships are sometimes awkward and fragile, threatening to fizzle before taking root. Making history is slow and delicate and uncertain, and it takes layers upon layers before a foundation is set. Especially if you are 35. And your neighbor across the street is 72. Or if you have three kids. And your neighbor has none. Or if you are from Dallas. And your neighbor is from Delhi. Or if you wear a cross. And your neighbor wears a hijab.
Different, we all know, can be good. It can even be the best. But man, different can be hard. And yet, I placed my hope in the just-because plate of brownies, the Post-it notes with my phone number and the driveway wave hello.
Every connection counts. And they all add up. Today, my neighbors stand in the gap for those I love who live far away. They ground me to my right-here home. They serve as surrogates for my over-there family. And they add richness to everything in between. Looking past differences to find connections is still sometimes hard. But hard is where the good stuff is.
So back to that refrigerator ... my neighbor needed a place to store some extra food. I love that she asked, and I am grateful that I had the space. Bring it, sister. You know the code to get in. My fridge is open to my neighbors. Just like me.
Lauren Green has lived in Wyndsor Creek since 2007. After her two children, Emery and Collin, flew the coop to college, she and her husband, Frank, still try to stay connected to their neighbors by talking nightly walks with their yellow lab, Macy, and tackling endless chores in the yard.
“In 500” is a monthly department written by members of our community in 500 words. The views expressed here do not necessarily reflect those of Southlake Style.
If you are interested in submitting a piece, please email Editor@SouthlakeStyle.com.