Intern's Introspections Week 2: Pardons at the Gardens

Yesterday I went to South Street, expecting to help with the Urban Gardens program. There were kids gathered, playing basketball and digging a hole in the front yard. I walked out of my car, getting tackled by one of the girls that comes to many of the programs.

At about 6:01pm, it hit me--there was no Urban Garden programming tonight. All at once, I found myself surrounded by twelve young kids and no programming.

To be completely honest, my automatic reaction was to leave. There was no programming tonight, therefore I had no need to be there that Thursday evening. I was contemplating leaving when suddenly I snapped to reality. I was standing next to a pile of concrete where another girl was sitting, watching the other kids play basketball. I stared at her and saw her stare back at me with big, beautiful brown eyes. I felt remorse and conviction immediately. Man. I had forgotten why I was here this summer again.

In that moment, the programming had replaced presence once again. It’s so easy for me to get wrapped up in the "when where why" and forget the "who." Here I was at South Street, surrounded by children, and yet I was about to leave for home to go sit by myself. 

The Executive Director of South Street said that programming is an excuse to be in relationship with the neighbors and people around us. The programming isn’t the focus, the people and the relationships that are cultivated as a result of the programming are the focus. In my task-oriented mind, it is easy to see the programming as the goal and not relationships, creating in me a heart that cares more about what is done (summer programming) rather than the people participating (aka the kids). 

How drastically different that evening looked when I sat down my task-oriented agenda and picked up the agenda of compassion.     

I crouched next to the girl on the concrete pile and asked her about her day at school. She told me about how she had gone to the zoo. That, of course, let to an entire entourage of questions, and we chatted about animals and school and learning.

From there, the evening progressed. “Let’s toss helicopters off of the balcony!” I was shocked to find that none of them knew what helicopters were. We traipsed to the back yard and picked up handfuls of the boomerang shaped leaf objects, tossing them from the balcony and onto a child who giggled joyously as they fell on her face.

We swang, talked about their schools, talked about my school, learned names through repetition and strange questions, played animal Charades. There was laughter and smiles--oh, and trust me, a fair share of fighting, bickering, and name calling. But I found that the seemingly frustrating moments were eclipsed by the radiance of other times.

Like the time a boy yelled at me, extremely concerned, “THERE’S A BUG ON YOUR LEG! THERE’S A BUG ON YOUR LEG!” After I couldn’t find it, he heroically came over and shooed the ant from my calf. We watched it crawl away into the bushes.

And the other time where we all sat down together on the picnic table. One child sat on my lap and the rest gathered around as we guessed animal Charades. “DUCK! CAT! GOAT!” There was laughter as one child was a snake.

As I gathered up my stuff, I was greeted by “DON’T LEAVE! DON’T LEAVE!” In response, I got to say my favorite sentences--“I'll be back! I’m going to be here all summer!” All summer.

All summer.

Practicing the presence of compassion.