One heart at a time

Night before last, a voice from the past left a phone message for me. She invited me to a Neighbor-to-Neighbor (n2n) gathering and it warmed my soul. In poking into the back of a big filing cabinet my husband was casting off, I discovered an n2n scrapbook two weeks ago that tugged at my heart's memories.

With a six-month-old, I screwed up the courage [in retrospect, I know it wasn't just me] to host a neighborhood conversation on race relations after the 2001 Cincinnati riots. It seemed a simple thing that I could do, given I was pretty much tied to home with an infant and toddler. For three years I was committed and active in this diverse group: marching in parades, fostering media attention, attracting members and, finally, helping plan and emcee a local forum. Funny thing is, one of my daughter's was throwing up that night, my husband was out of town and I was out of luck. I missed the forum and, from there, life intervened and I pretty much left n2n behind.

Yet this group persevered through some amazing and tenacious leadership and a dedicated membership to continue nine years later.

Last  night's potluck was special. I reconnected with some wonderful old friends and met new faces. I kept waiting for the meeting to commence, but the visiting never ceased ... at least not before I had to leave. It was simply a group of friends connecting over a meal.

And then it struck me as the beauty of the entire effort. When I had been so busy recruiting, planning and organizing, all that was necessary was to show up with an open heart. Perhaps, however, the ease of last night's communion would not have happened without what came before.

I learned so much in that group. As my friend Frank always said, overcoming racial tension "begins one heart at a time." I was dumbfounded to hear of the blatant and less-pronounced discrimination some of these new friends faced and still encounter. Curley said racism has not gotten better, "it's just gone underground." These are all local people, maybe not my immediate neighbors, by my neighbors nonetheless.

In one of the early "programmed" n2n meetings, Jill and Kent presented a study on the Good Samaritan parable in which we probed the truth of that story in a way I had not before, exploring just who is my neighbor. It was riveting then and is so very deeply seeded within me, even now. Interesting that n2n was not formed as a faith-based group and yet the core that gelled and regularly convenes nine years down the pike is. Another instance, I believe, of a group God called together that would not have touched each other's lives otherwise.

One of n2n's biggest lessons for me was recognizing white privilege. As a woman, I could identify with the times I felt discriminated against and as a pushed-down minority. However, I still had the Caucasian- birthright thing working in my favor.

I wrote this years ago as the result of n2n and it still speaks my heart.

TO BE ... ONE [SILENT PAIN]

To be black is to know the pain

silently. To have been told you’re

nothing, but when you respond

no one white is there to listen.

Listen to the pain, the stories,

the past. In that listening

is acknowledgment.

To be white is to feel shame for

something we think happened

a long time ago, not realizing

the wrong still exists. To be

white is to want to do, to fix

because we think we can. No one

ever told us we are nothing.

To be one, we must really listen to

each other; accept the stories

that are painful, express sorrow.

That long-denied acknowledgment –

just maybe – can heal enough so

those hurt can look ahead to the

things we can do together.

We must remember, not dismiss,

the past to forge a future free

of those mistakes.

• Exactly who are my neighbors?

• Who have I discounted?

• What lessons have I learned when engaging with someone different from myself?

• How do I encourage those relationships?

• What do I give/receive?

Fresh off the vine

Tad Barney photo

Last weekend was my husband's and his twin sister's birthday, always spent together, and they agreed to celebrate at a local pheasant farm. We had eaten there years ago and I was "game."

I had not anticipated the breadth of the feast, nor the event itself, something called dinner in the field, which included a hearty country meal (smoked pheasant and bruschetta appetizers, grilled pork and chicken, skinned mashed potatoes, giant kettle-cooked green beans, grilled corn on the cob, homemade bread and applesauce, crisp and light cole slaw, ice cream and fresh berries) and local farmers, including vintners and beer makers, with their products. It was a celebration of agriculture and felt like the American equivalent of a  Tuscan al fresco dinner. Long tables lined the apple orchard, where we sat communally savoring the multi-sensory experience of food, conversation, live music, acquainting with strangers and chatting with regional fruit, vegetable and animal growers.

It was magical.

And reminded me of an article I clipped years ago from Saveur, a real foodie magazine, focused on an Italian town that annually blocked the main street, while residents prepared a spaghetti feast for the entire population. There was a wonderful glossy black-and-white photo of those long tables, dressed in linen and dishes, end to end.

It gave me an idea to host such a meal in my hometown, Milford. Back then, I was involved with a terrific organization called Neighbor-to-Neighbor, initially created to bridge the 2001 Cincinnati race riots. I wanted this group to take it on as a "One Day Dinner" – kind of like a Sunday dinner, but with the emphasis of celebrating our alikeness, not our differences. It didn't fly, but the idea still hasn't left me.

I wonder why not.

I like the idea of a community pitching in, organizing, cooking and eating together. There's such ritual and congregation that revolves around eating a communal meal.

I LOVE food preparation. It's creative, cathartic, relaxing, energizing, sensual, artful and a bazillion other things. Imagine it magnified with more people involved.

I'm hungry all ready.

• How have I noticed food collecting people?
• What opportunities are there to gather my community?
• In what other ways could I be active in my community?
• How is it important to me to support local businesses/farmers?
• For what in my community am I grateful?


car lines
and macmeals


or


a walk
to the field
or farmer's
market,
maybe
the garden

for something
fresh
off the
vine


touching
the dirt
reminds
me


of
my
humble,
earthly
origins

Bright spirit not even death can dim

How do you assess a death?

Well, the life, actually, of someone for whom you cared?

Perhaps since I received the news only 10 minutes ago, it’s unfair to make that assessment now, with such little time and preparation. It has been on my mind as this crusty older neighbor with a heart of gold has struggled with strokes, depression, loss of independence, a fall, postponed hip surgery, the surgery, another bout of pneumonia. His heart just gave out. That’s what I understand at this point.

He’d been my neighbor about a dozen years, but I really grew to know and love him when, without hesitation, he and his wife helped me plan and execute a neighborhood conversation on race after the 2001 riots. I headed the group for several years, but had to leave for health and child-rearing reasons. He ably took it over and kept it together. He was a quiet, cantankerous, behind-the-scenes mover and shaker from day one, active as long as he could be and the reason the group still exists.

He was a well-loved educator and scout leader, raised a family that extended well behind his biological children, partnered with an equal wife, could tell an awesome story at the drop of a hat, loved history, teaching and people.

A year ago, I had an interesting conversation with him. I happened to call for his wife, who wasn’t home. Luckily for me, we chatted quite a while. It was about this same time of year and he really felt dark and gloomy. He said he had regretted that he had not made more male friends at a younger age. That women get it right, surrounding themselves with friends and long-term associations. His wife had regular lunches, a semi-annual retreat, local book club and a plethora of healthy relationships so vital in any stage of life but, according to him, especially in this later stage.

A bright spirit that can’t be dimmed by illness or even death. Memory and love ensure that.

• What lessons have I learned from others not here anymore?
• Did I appreciate them in the present or with regret, later?
• How can I change that next time?
• What lesson do I want my life to impart?

A scraggy beard,
gruff voice and manner,
hiding the huge,
beating heart
that listened to God
and insisted on helping
no matter what

Eventual discord
between
body and soul,
finally reconciled,
but not after
a lifetime of
service and love

beneath a smile
that revealed
God within