Who is not our neighbor?

I might have learned this language from Valarie Kaur's See No Stranger (2021), but the foundation was set in my mother's home where we grew up with her practices and her hooked rug.  This is a tribute poem I wrote for my mother in 2019, and revised in 2024 after her death:

Who is not our neighbor?

My mom spelled this out in her large hooked rug that hung over our couch for four decades: Love thy neighbor as thyself.

We drank in this faith while waiting for her to finish conversations with passersby, while watching her draw animals, trees, and buildings.

We watched love emerge in landscapes and still lifes, and hung them on the walls until what was white space became much like a forest.

Who is not our neighbor?  Her smiles and kindness created neighbors along with homemade cookies and recycled and repurposed clothing.

We were surrounded by piles of what could not be simply tossed--magazines, egg cartons, coffee grounds, eggshells, and glass bottles.

Who is not our neighbor? Mom asked by cutting plastics before disposing of them, by thinking into the future of her children's children.

She and dad shared the faith of birds, providing food until their safety depended on guarding nests and feeders from rescued kitties.

Mom has never had much use for distant gods or  godhead except for how it shows up in trees, neighbors, and neighborhoods she loves.

And she draws, gathers and assembles this vision into art--images whose humility surpasses that of altars in some churches I've known.  

These are the sermons I attend to. We were surrounded by the faith of our mother.  Her art surrounds us still.  Who is not our neighbor?

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My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright. 

© 2019 Susan L. Chast

Published in Grieving Into Love (2020), p. 65.

Revised 2024 as a tribute poem.