He can't keep much down. Which is not unusual for him....

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He can't keep much down. Which is not unusual for him.
In my own life I imagine the toll irregular eating would take on my body. Of dubious and unpredictable nutrition. Of the effects of irregular sleep on my GI system. Add to that addictions. Past and present. Gives me a stomach ache thinking about it.
It takes its toll. It exacts its price in flesh.
Meanwhile, a regular has disappeared from the streets. He told me he was waiting for a bed in rehab up in Lewiston. Praying he is in that bed. Another has been on such a tear with alcohol everybody just shakes their head when I ask about him. Praying he will find his way. I know this has been his way.
Socks, coffee cards, a few tshirts and boxers today. And no, I never imagined handing out mens boxer briefs on the street. My imagination was not strong enough to imagine their gratitude.

He had requested a little book. He said it helps him to write things down...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He had requested a little book. He said it helps him to write things down. Makes total sense to me. He smiles when he receives it. Tells me it will help him budget for the next month and rattles off the cost of rent and expenses against benefits he receives. Organized. Clear. Off he goes, coffee cake in hand.
Thank you Dear Anonymous. Thank you. With recent donations we were able to gear him up with pants, sneakers, new t-shirt and boxers. A bounty.

Standing tall. Walking down the street. Upright. It has not always been this way...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

Standing tall. Walking down the street. Upright. It has not always been this way. Sweet smile. Pants ripped out at the knee and shoes split open across the top. But he offers that smile. And it lifts my heart. And he takes a piece of coffeecake from one of the guys that offers. I had none left. Coffee card. Socks. A few words and he's off. And that moment can be my sweet spot on any given day.
All the clothes I have found while out and about, dumped here and there have been washed and now fly out of my car. Insatiable. Never enough. I need. I want. I lost. It was stolen. I need. I need. I need. But there are smiles. There is sweetness. In this moment there is not one of us against the other. In this fraction of a moment. And sometimes in this world that's more than I can imagine. Thank you Dear Anonymous.

He was some happy with a leather jacket a street friend had donated...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He was some happy with a leather jacket a street friend had donated. His disposition changed. I know what that feels like. A new jacket. Cut just so. With a solid touch of badass to it. He checks his hair. Even takes off his sunglasses. I know this too. This preparation to be seen. His eyes meet me across the distance of the lens.
See me. This is who I am.
See below to see the next image. When his veneer drops and we stand together on a street at dawn. Laughing. And laughing.

 
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And then this. When we stand. And laugh. And laugh.

I had not seen him without a heavy coat. Neck wraps, scarves, hats, gloves. All necessary just a few weeks ago...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

I had not seen him without a heavy coat. Neck wraps, scarves, hats, gloves. All necessary just a few weeks ago. He was always so cold and woefully underdressed. Today, without hat and heavy gear I feel like I meet him for the first time. And he stepped right into the social distance a lens offers. And that smile. A good start to the day.
And for those who may notice, no one is wearing masks out here. A few carry masks with them if they want to use the bus.
And many are hobbling. Sore, swollen feet. Held captive too long in heavy boots. They have to be able to walk. That's where the sock urgency comes in. It becomes obvious all too soon that foot health is paramount to life on the street.

He reminds me of many young men I have met...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

He reminds me of many young men I have met. Handsome. Young. So young. Stories of lives detoured by drugs. Colleges left. Classes abandoned. Families distanced. The siren of heroin. The mistress who will not be refused easily. It may not be his exact story but some of the refrains are so familiar. The despondency cloaked as survival skill.

He shows me he still has the mask he requested from me last week. Tucked away safely in his pocket. To use on the bus. He shows me.

So many young men. And women. Derailed. I am fortunate, blessed really, to know many that have flourished in recovery. And their about-faces hold me in these moments. Not that I insist it should be any different than it is, but that it CAN be.
Maybe there really is a season, and a time for every purpose, under heaven.

Struggling. Stresses mount up. Smaller stresses connect to larger stresses. To traumas...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
Struggling. Stresses mount up. Smaller stresses connect to larger stresses. To traumas. Become unmanageable. Highly charged. And then it's desperate. Simply what it looks like from here. Behind my mask.
Racing ahead in established patterns and trying to push pause in newer ones. The drama on the street. The drama in a heart. How we escalate and stand convicted to our efforts and then add escalation in defense. Simply what it looks like from here. Behind my mask. I recognize this thing we humans do. Heartache on the corner.

He comes by this morning to say hello. Has his own place now. Livin' the dream...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He comes by this morning to say hello. Has his own place now. Livin' the dream. I mentioned he looks so much better than he did deep into last winter.
He says,
'Yeah. You mean when I was hating life?'
Then, the way he lit a cigarette for the man with a bloodied face who stumbles by. The cigarette had already fallen out once, barely noticed but then picked up again. Fumbling, swollen, stiff fingers, clenching soiled bags. A back pack falling off his shoulders.
So he cups his hands tenderly around the end of the cigarette dangling from the man's lips. Like a benediction. And shelters that little flame as it casts a brief glow beneath that drawn up hood. He takes a grateful drag.

That's what love looks like sometimes.

Good morning from all the stories swirling on the street this morning....

 
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Dear Anonymous,

Good morning from all the stories swirling on the street this morning. From the content to the discontented, swirling like some sort of tumbleweed at my feet. Stories of gratitude. Stories of desperation. Stories of the lost. Stories of the found. And I navigate the conspirational. The extreme. The deluded. The fantastic. The painfully real. All filtered through my own tiny perceptions. I can experience a vertigo of logic and reason out here. I tie myself off to the sharing of a few resources. Water anyone? Coffee card? Coffeecake? And bask in the hearts that flutter together like timid moths for just a moment. All of us. 

This is Mike. This morning he had this smile. Always good to see him sporting a smile...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

This is Mike. This morning he had this smile. Always good to see him sporting a smile. The alternative can be as grim as this is uplifting.
Lots of water handed out. Appreciation for a coffee card. A pair of socks. Some looking quite content and pleased. Some in pretty rough shape. No one wearing masks anymore. Not even an effort. Except for those using the bus. They tell me they can't ride without one.
There is one. One who shys away from any group at all though on his own speaks as a gentleman. Says he's working on getting into rehab. Says he hopes it's next week. He says ' I'm killin' myself out here.' And he looks worse each day. Scars across his face where he has fallen. He blames his bum knee but he and I and his street pals all know it's more that that. I believe he has good shelter overnight. But he roams from early morning. Leaning on his cane. The lines on his face deepening each day. And the sticky strands of whatever demons follow him are thick in the air as he turns the corner.

This is Ed. Ed struggles. He also shares his smile. He calls himself a loyalist...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
This is Ed. Ed struggles. He also shares his smile. He calls himself a loyalist because he is always there waiting to say good morning and for a piece of coffeecake.
'I moved to Portland after living in New York. I was homeless. I watched a homeless man fall on the street there. Ill maybe. Dead maybe. Who knows. Nobody stopped. He didn't have a suit and tie on. Nobody stopped. If he had a suit and a tie on somebody woulda' stopped...'