Ninety minutes outside of the city, I wasn’t home. The small, isolated houses looked like they’d been deposited by a passing tornado, too far from the main road to have been placed intentionally. And the road sign that pointed to a store 6.5 miles away made me wonder: is that how close civilization is? Everything was foreign.
An approaching horse-drawn Amish carriage punctuated the strangeness. But I started to think – who’s the foreigner? Despite owning the land, this family had been surrounded their whole lives by people like me: strangers whose roaring car engines disturb their tranquil lives. While musing about who was truly at home, I was distracted by movement: the woman in the front of the carriage raised her hand and smiled as she waved.
Returning it, now with a smile on my face, my internal argument stopped. Maybe none of us will ever truly feel at home, but that doesn’t have to stop us from being a welcoming host to others, regardless of where we are.
Strangers are just friends waiting to happen.
Rod McKuen
