More musings on the theme of NOURISHMENT. . .

Back in late March, I made the rather audacious commitment to rustle up lunch for approximately 18 people every Wednesday from early April through late autumn. As my finger hit the "SEND" button, relaying this promise to Darrie Ganzhorn (the Executive Director the Homeless Garden Project in Santa Cruz - www.homelessgardenproject.org), the "Oh, s&%#!" response flooded over me like a tidal wave. "What if I'm out of town? How will I cook for nine times my current meal planning ratios every week? What can I cook for that many people besides pb&j? What if it's rainy/cold/windy/hot/stormy? etc. etc." The "what ifs" seemed endless as I weighed the responsibility associated with my spontaneous act of bravery.

And so I sought accomplices. Someone (or two, or three. . .?!!) to lighten the load, to commiserate and, most importantly, to co-create!! The Universe seemed to chuckle at my predicament and, charmingly, served me up a pair of willing soulful cookers. YAY! (My partners, in truth, also confessed to suffering through Oh-S&^#dom upon consigning themselves to accomplices in this perfect "crime!") Each week since April 7th, then, my buddies Karen & Clay and I (aided by my chief rescuer, Christine) have somehow managed to furnish a wholesome, organic meal for a family of 18 (give or take a few). In response, we have been nourished beyond our wildest imaginings. I am constantly struck by what a rarity it is in today's world to see men and women working alongside each other as equals, as complementary parts of a larger whole. Perhaps that's part of what makes being a part of the Homeless Garden Project's community each Wednesday such an affirming, uplifting experience.

A grin breaks over my face as I struggle up to the kitchen shed, soup pot in hand. I'm met by the Jill-of-all-trades, Susie, who's dropped a hoe to begin the lunch set-up process. Over the past six weeks, Susie has demonstrated such grace under pressure, such seeming control over multiple unpredictable variables (not the least of whom are a cohort of a dozen new organic farming apprentices!!), such resiliency that I can't help but smile. She's a shoulder-to-the-grindstone with a huge heart.

Next, I see the familiar shy but warm grin of Leigh, her pregnant belly now almost pulling her horizontal. Whether tending to the mountain of compost or delicately transplanting baby seedlings, Leigh seems to radiate kindness. I soak it in and feel nurtured by her mothering. Deborah makes her way up to the kitchen shed's counter, her floppy hat just shading her face. Though I rarely see Deborah grinning, appreciation and determination seem to have taken up residence on her countenance. She always expresses such sincere gratitude for our time and the meal we've prepared as she glances at her watch, making her way back into the field at precisely noon. Rainbow-haired happiness strides up next, in the person of Amanda. Always a story to tell and an appetite to offer -- with round after round of thanks. Moises follows, his characteristic swirl of dreadlock wrapped just 'round the back of his head and nestled behind his right ear-plugged ear. His smile always disarms me -- radiant as the morning sun and just as healing. He's followed by New Hampshire-speakin' David, whose sense of humor and groundedness anchor the whole crew. . . He serves up doses of garden and life wisdom in exchange for spoonfuls of hot soup. Michael follows, allowing Angelika to step in the lunch line before him. A bear of a guy, his grin sits atop now famous t-shirts that describe his character perfectly: "DON'T PANIC - I'M ORGANIC!"

In the midst of these fields, where rainbows of chard sit comfortably next to stickerless blackberry, women and men appear to labor harmoniously. They use natural strengths to complement each others' efforts and, in so doing, the gals become stronger, more confident. The guys seem to learn honestly that muscle's not always what's needed. A community of peers develops, where wisdom is sought equally from seasoned hands and newbies, like me! I can offer my chili recipe in exchange for advice on how to keep my cucumbers safe from snails. Clay can admire the artistic design of a circular bed while Michael describes what it takes to maintain it. At the end of the day, each feels a sense of playing a vital role, of making the Earth a little brighter, more sane, a bit more peaceful. That's the type of community nonprofit that truly empowers us all -- women & men, old & young, monied & penniless. . . And it's where you'll find me every Wednesday just as the clock chimes 11:30 a.m.

Got Dirt? (Or so much depends on a Rusted Green Wheelbarrow . . .)

I had dithered for a full 30 hours, making every excuse why I could not expend the effort to give our fledgling gardening project a boost by gathering a FREE wheelbarrow-full of excellent soil from a new friend. She had exuberantly and generously offered both dirt and means of conveyance; I had only to muster the energy to collect it. I hemmed and hawed about how I might not soil the interior of our ill-suited Corolla with the delicious soil if using it as the preferred means of transport. I scrolled through my mental rolladex, searching for a pick-up owner to cajole into lending me wheels.

Finally, needled gently and kindly by Christine, I hopped astride my faithful Dolce (i.e., my beloved bicycle) and pedaled 11 blocks to confront the Dirt. There it sat, unpresumptuously, comfortably settled in its perfectly-suited temporary home: a sturdy, well-loved, generously rusted ol' wheelbarrow. The shock of green lawn unfurled beneath it was like a taunt: "You have to start with soil if you want to surround yourself with green, living things," it seemed to whisper. I slowly wheeled my bicycle to a safe spot out of sight, delaying to inspect Angie's garden, wonder at her little projects unfolding, admire the unselfconscious array of antique patio furniture. . . And then I turned to confront the Dirt.

Knees bent, back braced, I raised the load and gave it a good push down the lawn. "Oh, boy. It's gonna be a long 11-block walk." The 'barrow (thankfully!!) wheeled easily under my guidance, as I effortfully steered around a low-hanging branch, up 'n down driveway demarcations and -- at last! -- toward the end of the block. "Two blocks down, nine to go," I thought. Now striding along the sidewalk bordering a main thoroughfare to the beach on a glorious 68-degree afternoon, I felt a little conspicuous. I imagined curious onlookers gawking and guffawing, "What's she think she's doing with THAT load?" I felt perspiration begin to stream from my underarms and paused to remove a layer of clothing. My right forearm throbbed and my triceps felt as if they were in some sort of Olympic challenge.

Cooled and rested, I lifted the load anew, settling into a more comfortable pace and allowing a little grin to cross my face. "It's DIRT. A precious heap-full of our good Earth soon to become home to more intentionally-settled little living things. It's soil, gifted by a friend who shares my enthusiasm for growing things. It's brown GOLD." My little brain starting spinning out, perhaps under the weight of the exertion of it all.

I approached one of the busiest intersections in Santa Cruz (Bay & Mission), thankful for a red light and trying not to look too odd as the busy flow of Sunday traffic whirred past. The light changed and I nonchalantly pushed the wheelbarrow out into Mission Street, eyeing the safety of the corner 10 feet ahead with great determination. Next, across Bay Street I proceeded, trying to navigate carefully so as not to lose the load for a variety of understandable reasons, not least among them my pride. I continued up Bay Street, single-mindedly pursuing the peaceful interior of Trescony Garden, where Christine promised she'd rescue me.

Peering through sweat droplets now streaming from forehead into eyes, I observed a cheerfully rolling, wheelchair-equipped woman rolling capably, effortlessly toward me. I (gratefully!) pulled the wheelbarrow toward the right and set it down, clearing more of a pathway for my fellow wheeler. She rolled past with a big grin and a warm, "Thanks!" and left me to confront the wheelbarrow full of its now seemingly not-so-onerous load. Here I had been kvetching about pushing a few tens-of-pounds of dirt 10 city blocks toward my accomplice, Christine, and this woman had spent what appeared to be the better part of her life daily - literally - wheeling around her body weight. I felt the deft blow of self-pity and self-absorption smack my perspective back into some semblance of humility and gratitude. Renewing my union with my load, I pushed my beloved dirt a little more lightly toward Trescony Gardens. Looking up, I could see artichoke bushes pushing skyward, the tops of fava bean growth just cresting the fence line. I marveled at the elaborate trellises some gardeners had carefully constructed to ease sweet peas and green beans into graceful growth. And I glimpsed the smiling face of Christine pedaling toward me on her bike -- my rescuer!

Swapping bicycle for wheelbarrow, Christine took up the pushing responsibilities as we covered another 2 1/2 blocks, chattering about the lusciousness of our free dirt and envisioning the herb garden soon to call it home. I resumed wheeling duties for a couple more blocks, ceding the final push to Christine. With great exuberance, we hand-troweled the load into our half wine barrel, watching it fill up to just-the-right height. Ahhhhhhh!! Rarely have I felt such a sense of contentment, gratitude and satisfaction at an hour's labor.

So much depends on a rusted green wheelbarrow, the kindness of neighbors, and the gift of human encounter. . .

The qualities of nourishment. . .

Responding to a challenge issued by my youngest sister (to her six married siblings & their offspring and her parents) -- to make and distribute within the month of January more than 1,600 pb& j sandwiches to the hungry in our communities -- my wife & I set out to acquire basic provisions. Unpacking our grocery bags of Safeway whole wheat bread loaves, Trader Joe's fruit preserves, Safeway jumbo-size peanut butter, we inquired, "What are we really feeding people?"

This prompted some reflection about nourishing and the qualities of nourishing one another. Were we just making low-quality, giveaway sandwiches, without regard to the actual ingredients involved? Would we be content serving this same food to our friends or lunch guests? What would it really mean to nourish another citizen, especially one who had likely been marginalized by society and, as such, who had already suffered slights, mistreatment, prejudiced attitudes, and other indignities? What qualities characterize true nourishment? And what would it truly "cost" to nourish another?

To start with, observing the Hippocratic Oath seems fundamental: "First, do no harm." To me, this means that I would, by and large, not feed another something that I did not myself want to ingest. (I'm a vegetarian, so I make exception for others' true love and need of meat products, albeit preferring those that have been produced humanely, with regard to preserving the natural environment.) Should we, then, feed others food products that contain trans-fats (chemically-manipulated fats that are simply no good for one's heart)? High fructose corn syrup (again, not great for one's body and produced with no regard for the environment and other farmers). GMO-variety whole grains? Etc. Etc. Hmmmm... We'd have to toss the Safeway bread (high fructose corn syrup counted among its top five ingredients) and the peanut butter (hydrogenated corn oil its third component)!!

Okay, so let's turn our attention to the spirit with which we embraced this project: our intention. We intend to use this project as an opportunity to connect with the many, many transient individuals in our immediate community. We see them setting up camp under the roadway underpasses, in the brush of the bicycle greenway, in the hallways of office buildings when the salaried folks have dispersed. . . We stride by them lingering outside local eateries, panhandling on the main drag, holding up signs that implore "Hungry, please help" at busy intersections. . . We notice them sorting through dumpsters and scraping up recyclables to raise money for food. Each has a name. A story. A life line. A tale of life's twists and turns. Just like you. Just like me.

Can we then explore the notion of truly nourishing the hungry and the outcast among us, rather than simply feeding them? Can we connect with both their physical need and their social-emotional needs, as well? Is it too difficult to imagine them as a whole human being, in need of and entitled to loving attention? What is the human-to-human cost of seeing, connecting and attending to someone else's hunger? Can each of us expend more than the 50-some odd cents it costs to assemble a reasonably delicious pb&j sandwich in order to truly feed another human being?