Magic under the spreading ash

My young and wise friend Caleb can hear the trees. When he was younger, he'd hug them to be close enough to listen. On rare occasions, they have spoken to me – I seem more open to their messages in fall, when their color show enraptures me.

A particular ash tree has recently shared its magic with me, an adult cohort, a merry band of children, an angry mother who has softened and an interesting community centered around the park, home to this magnificent ash. She has witnessed, and perhaps tended, an unfolding transformation.

I first met her last spring as I joyfully romped through seven Sundays of assisting another artist with an arts program in the very urban Washington Park, smack in the middle of Cincinnati's Over The Rhine and the front porch of Music Hall.

She was planted there, silently observing our triangle of green defined by concrete walkways long before we ever showed up. Just as she accepted the grand park make-over and OTR's transition from slum to chic locale, she gracefully allowed us to play and create beneath her spreading branches, fully embracing us.

At first, we saw her only for her shading glory on some sweltering afternoons. She was an almost unnoticed comfort. Then we enlisted her as gallery space, decorating her with rope and clothespins as kids' special works waved under her, drying. I was first aware of her magic the week we employed glue and glitter and much of it spilled off the vertical papers and down the tree trunk, to her chunky roots. She glistened, consenting to our improvisational use of her. I think I almost detected a smile.

That week the entire tenor of our project changed. We had become part of her landscape. Seven weeks sailed by and I never said good-bye or even thank-you to her.

I am certain she continued to quietly nurture whatever transpired under her space over the summer. She carries the quality of acceptance.

We returned in the fall, clueless to the turmoil brewing. We neglected to dress her the first week, preoccupied with beginning again. She soldiered on forgotten, but not forgetting. Tensions erupted the second week, even though we remembered her, the rope and clothespins. The protective magic, I noticed, had returned. So had the large brood of siblings and cousins of all ages under the care of two teens, who clamored for their own space and time. Bedlam ensued as toddlers found their way into all of the supplies while their guards went off duty to find their own space to create. Paint was flying and spread all over hands and clothes. Our art making had spun out of control, unaided by the mother of some of the young artists taking issue with park rules requiring an adult present.

The intimidating African-American woman with the quick tongue glared in our direction. I knew whatever she was saying wasn't good. Racism, she cried to the park staff. I wasn't angry, just sad that it could appear that way: two white suburban women working with her children, nieces and nephews. She yanked one of the youngest and most fully engaged away in her fury. "Please don't, he's doing great," I called, but knew it was pointless. Somehow "Thank you for letting us have them today," reeled off my lips. That wasn't me speaking. 

My partner was near heartbroken. She's used to pre-schoolers, not teens with 'tudes. My work with Artsy Fartsy Saturdays and rearing  my own teenagers had taught me not to take any of it seriously. It was those smart and curious toddlers with no limits that crawled under my skin. Sarah handles them so very well. I think God knew what she was doing when she paired us.

So did the tree.

We re-grouped and discerned that the older girls needed their own space under the spreading ash. Sarah brought poster board and a sheet the next week and we began to acquire a groove, some rules and respect.

I thought I would slip on the acorns and onto my tushie under that tree when I heard Mike say please and thank-you repeatedly last week. He WAS learning and also gained the confidence to declare himself an artist. "Don't look," he'll warn. "I'm an artist and not done." He tricked me once, asking me to look, then frowning and yelling "BUT not yet." It became a wonderful game.

Khaliss was whipping though the paper bags, shredding everything in sight with scissors. In order to distract him and save the bags, I offered to make him a pirate patch like the one the skull was wearing on his T-shirt. He cackled, let me position it and ran off to scare cousins and siblings with his pirate talk.

His older sister, not yet a teen and banned by her cousins from the cardboard, was struggling all afternoon. Sarah gently pulled her aside and had a talk. I don't know what words were spoken, but could hear true compassion and kindness. The tree was happy and so was the Kaleia.

I am now on conversational terms with the once-angry mother. The past few weeks, I ask Kim how her week was and thank her for the gift of her children. "You're welcome," she says. And the tree beams.

Sunday, Sarah was unusually late with a good reason and our creative gang had begun assembling. I can't tell you how many helpers we were blessed with this week. Kids that had once fought for paint, were now stringing the tree with rope and pins, making art examples, taking a break from "work," singing, returning to help pack up and wheel the loaded cart to the car.

And we all couldn't quite part, knowing we have only one more week together. The rounds of hugs were endless. "Can I come see you this week?" V'Era sweetly asked. Oh, how I wished I lived closer to the tree and her neighbors.

• What do trees symbolize for me?
• How does Spirit work in and through nature?
• When have I witnessed nature transform humans?
• What message do the trees have for me?
• How have I learned to listen?


always there
in her full glory

we trampled by
and over her

not noticing
until we needed
her

she gracefully
complied

invisibly guiding
our efforts

forging deep
understanding,
helping friendships
blossom

Listen to this post:

Heart of compassion

SORTING/Pastel on paper

Listen to post:

Over the weekend,  I was clearing out my desk and preparing to move into new studio space. One of this things I can do while waiting ... for a move-in date and better insurance quotes.

I was able to pitch and recycle so many pages of earlier versions of the book I continue to plod away teaching, eventually to revise and publish, when I discovered the small, black-and-white program stashed between file folders. It was titled "Understanding Cultural Differences" and outlined the 2004 community forum I helped organize.

It brought tears to my eyes and opened a large soft spot in my heart. I had almost forgotten my small role in our local Neighbor-to-Neighbor group all of those years ago. Saddened by the 2001 Cincinnati race riots and with an infant, I answered the daily newspaper's call to host a community conversation. In retrospect, I realize it wasn't just the newspaper's invitation. It seemed something proactive that I could do, tied down with young children. I called my neighbors and posted a notice and, lo and behold, if we didn't get a large, diverse and dedicated crowd unafraid to tackle some tough questions about racial differences and how to bridge that gap. Some of the comments still ring in my heart as truth:
• Children are colorblind, they have to be taught prejudice.
• There's still racism, it just went under ground and is more subtle.
• White privilege exists.
• Education is crucial to negating racism.
• You can change prejudice, one heart at a time.

2 FACED/Pastel on paper

After an initial year or so of getting more deeply acquainted, the group opted to share what we had formed more broadly by hosting a public discussion. Interestingly enough, I never got to the forum. One of my daughters was extremely sick that evening and my husband was out of town. It was a turning point and time for me to hand over leadership. I never forgot that warm and loving group, the times we marched in the local parade together, bonded over re-telling tragedies and hugging, changing the world one heart at a time, as my co-leader Frank Evans always said. Retired teacher Bob Terwillegar, no longer with us, diligently kept the group going for many years. It still meets and, about a year ago, I was invited to attend the monthly dinner. It was a joyful homecoming.

I am still struck by the mission statement we carefully and collectively crafted:

" ... to understand and respect life experiences and cultures different from our own, then help others understand by speaking against injustice and becoming an example of compassion and love for all."

Several weeks ago while I was waiting for my youngest and a friend to finish their after-school snack at McDonald's, I struck up a conversation with an animated older farmer. He told me many interesting things, but when he said something derogatory about African-Americans, I thought about what Neighbor to Neighbor had taught me and shot back: "that's offensive and inappropriate." We gently argued, but he could see I was not going to back down. I could also acknowledge that he was just passing on what he had been taught. I left with the prayer on my lips that my words, my heart may have touched his attitude.

How could I not, I was defending my friends and neighbors?

• How has racism touched my life?
• When have I spoken up against it?
• How have I been moved by the story of one of its victims?
• How has my past work influenced who I am now, what I am doing?
• How do I see Spirit present in all of this?


responsible for two
young lives, so
dependent


yet also outraged
by the countless
others who
have been marginalized,
tortured and lived as other


in the same country,
same city,
same neighborhood


that I inhabit
with my white privilege


something drives me to
take a small step


that still serves me today


a small step that
enlarged my
heart of compassion

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?