Farmer wave

I grew up with the farmer wave. It’s what you do when you cross paths with someone on a gravel road. It’s the barest flick of a finger or two. An acknowledgment. “I see you.”

Out in the world, no one waves. Traveling to Washington DC last week, I was reminded of the hiddenness we share when we are many. In our profusion, each is a stranger. Why notice one another? Walk as if you’re alone, eyes down—and even better if your earbuds show. Ooze self-sufficiency, disconnectedness, disinterest.

My country neighbors are no less self-reliant. Their outsized trucks won’t be cowed by any storm.  The effortless grace of their raised fingers isn’t about their naiveté; it’s about our perceived connection.  If we both have reason to travel down that same gravel road, then we are unquestionably bound.  We surely know one another, or our parents did, or there’s something that links us, which we would discover if only we paused to talk. The very act of sharing this gravel road belies the possibility that we are mere strangers. Your answering wave confirms that.

This simple custom makes me rethink the separateness of those I meet beyond my adjacent country roads. Those men and women on the sidewalk in Washington, were they not linked inextricably to me and to one another? precious children of God, neighbors, siblings? The fiction that we are mere strangers limits our vision, our imagination, what is possible in our life together. The outward differences that distinguish us pale against the larger similarity in our genes and in our hearts.

As I share the road with others, in whatever metropolis or village, I long for the energy and room to see that. I might even test it out, flicking a wave in their direction, or saying “hello” when others are silent. And sometimes their response will confirm what I already know: we are, all of us, more than strangers.