A couple of years back, one of my neighbors, a man I liked but didn't know very well, told me he wanted to give me something. He brought me a bottle of wine and a bag of plums from the tree in his yard. He'd never been to my house, though he lived next door. But I'd been to his yard quite a few times, helping him move firewood, once showing him how to glaze a window. The thing he said that so surprised me was, "I just wanted you to know that you're about the best neighbor I've ever had."

I could not have been more touched or astonished by what he said. It actually caught me off guard and I almost cried at his words of gratitude. The two or three small things I'd done for him over a period of a couple of years had meant so much to him that this man, probably in his mid-forties, considered me his best neighbor ever. At the same time that I was so deeply moved by what he said, I was a little sad that my small deeds had seemed to him to be the most generous gestures anyone had ever made toward him.

I was living in a part of Seattle that I didn't like a lot. I'd recently been forced to move when the house I'd rented for fifteen years was put on the market for sale. I'd had to find something quickly; affordable and which would allow me to bring my little pooch, Bungee. Where I had lived, the block had thrown a going away party for me, to my great surprise, and I left there feeling a little sorry for myself, no longer allowed to live on the street I'd loved for so long, or among the neighbors I'd been somewhat adopted by.

My new neighborhood had no sidewalks - which to me is a must for visiting and neighborly interaction. There are so many interesting and friendly conversations you can have with people walking down the sidewalk and I was disheartened that I would not have those in my new home. But I found a different kind of neighborliness on that street. There was a woman in her 80s who lived across from me. I offered her help many, many times before something finally occurred that caused her to accept my offers. Washington State wanted her to change her license tags. Not just the tabs, but to exchange her old metal tags for new ones. I cannot tell you how happy it made me to go out and crouch down by her bumpers and crank off the old rusty bolts and install her shiny new tags with the image of Mt. Rainier on them. My own mother lived in Texas and I remember thinking, "I hope someone does this for my mom."

Once again in my life, that good ol' Seattle real estate machine roared and my house was sold, this time with two weeks' notice. I was moving again, but this time I felt better about it. I was moving back to my old neighborhood and to what felt like a powerful, symbolic change toward something greater in my life. (Which did come true.) But what I found from my neighbors when I left, the three closest to me, the neighbors on each side and the elderly lady across the street, was that each of them let me know in their own ways that I was "just about the best neighbor they'd ever had."

I'm telling you this not to make some great claims about myself. I've done no great things. But I have simply noticed the people around me and been moved to reach out and make myself available in case they need me. When I was reading the Personal Safety Net website, moved first by the magnificent Rumi poem in their mission statement, I saw a section that said, "No one is an island." And just those simple words brought back these memories of my life in Seattle neighborhoods and how much satisfaction I have received by reaching out to my neighbors and connecting with them in some way. Whether it is a short talk about the weather or a chuckle as you lift together to carry a heavy piece of furniture into the garage, I like feeling a part of my community and I treasure feeling valued and loved by that community. No matter where you are, your community is very much your family. I'm very pleased to find out about Personal Safety Nets and that there is an organization whose great vision is exactly that.
written by Michael Tomlinson