Last night I was lying in bed very early. Done with the day. Thunder rumbled. Rain was falling. I was grieving the end of one of those books that I fall in love with and am so excited I can't wait to read but mourn when it comes to those last chapters. So, I began to read it again, as I am wont to do. I fell asleep and as I opened my eyes the two windows in my bedroom were glowing cadmium red. And just as I saw that brilliant glow and before I could be disappointed I had missed it with camera in hand, it began to fade and I fell back asleep. Into a deep, dark sleep. And I had this thought, like this may be like dying. And that was a comfort.
Love from the streets.
Memory from July 8th, 2019:
Dear Anonymous,
He shouts at me from across the street.
'Hey! I got somethin' for you!'
He hands me a card. Taped inside is a necklace he has made. Within it is a note torn from a spiral bound notebook.
It is a thank you to a certain Dear Anonymous. It's content echoes the same message he has for each of you. For all of you Dear Anonymous's.
'Thank you for everything you do. I would have wrote sooner except I have problems with reading and writing, so someone helped me write to you.
You have done more than my family has ever done for me. You've shown me love and compassion. Which has made me see my life from a different point of view.
Also, it's inspired me to start doing some art work.
All my love from me and the homeless community.
We love and appreciate you!'
Coloring books. Paper. Markers. Socks. Coffee cards. The blankets. The fleece neck warmers. The boots. So simple.
It does not go unnoticed.
Love from the streets.
This is how you will 'go to seed' and I will try and recover from seeing this...
This is how you will 'go to seed' and I will try and recover from seeing this. Try and close my jaw which has dropped open. Try and recover from never imagining this as a solution to your propagation. I will think of water and winter and weeds in parking lots in late February. I will need to shake that thought off a bit and remember it is July. It is July.
Dear god. You make me laugh out loud...
Dear god. You make me laugh out loud. Not being a fan of carnations I take a long walk, day after day, around the table filled with them. And then, from the corner of my eye you show up in this way and make mockery of my carnation bias. And I laugh out loud.
holding tenderly without clutching. holding tenderly without refusing to bloom...
holding tenderly without clutching.
holding tenderly without refusing to bloom.
holding tenderly even as we unfold.
holding tenderly what we deem impossible.
There was urgency in the nursery.
There was urgency in the nursery.
Even rocks move if you are able to hang around for several millennium.
Even rocks move if you are able to hang around for several millennium.
Whether the borage lined up like horses or horses lined up like borage.
Whether the borage lined up like horses or horses lined up like borage.
Years ago I officiated a funeral for a young woman who died of a fatal overdose...
Years ago I officiated a funeral for a young woman who died of a fatal overdose. Her daughter, a teenager at the time had told me in a meeting 'I want my mom's funeral to be something to remember.'
The family handed flower seeds to all who attended that service, seeds carefully wrapped in paper origami flowers they had made. I'll never forget their attention to that detail. Them sitting together. Folding that paper. Tucking in perennial seeds.
After the service on a cold, windy day in early spring I planted those seeds.
Each year they return in my garden. Stronger and healthier and more beautiful than the previous season.
I am comforted by her company though I never knew her. To the daughter of this woman: your mom's funeral was unforgettable to me.
Being Bee.
Being Bee.
...He seems to be barely hanging on.
Dear Anonymous,
He was at the corner of an intersection. Alone. At 6 AM when there are few if any cars going by. Carrying an illegible sign. Carving a tiny, little space to be at a traffic light that people would have to eventually stop. But not for him.
He can barely speak. His eyes wide open. Light blue grey eyes big as saucers, and I wondered if light itself may hurt when it enters.
He accepts water and socks and a coffee card. A clean t-shirt. He does not smile but I can see he is appreciative.
He seems to be barely hanging on.
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
How'd you sleep last night?...
Dear Anonymous,
I asked after everyone had a piece of cake, water, tshirt or shoes. Whatever the need du jour was. Who is this? But no one seemed to know who it was.
The condensation was forming under his plastic wrap and I thought 'meat trays'. A horribly uncomfortable thought once I had it.
I stuffed his boot with socks, a bottle of water and a coffee card like some twisted St. Nick in the Summer, letting him know I was close by with a 'Good morning. I don't mean to disturb you...' so he did not become too alarmed. His voice in return was soft and appreciative. Good morning.
How'd you sleep last night?
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
What Robin was posting.
What Robin was posting.
Here is a message attached to a PayPal donation of cash to Dear Anonymous...
Dear Anonymous,
Here is a message attached to a PayPal donation of cash to Dear Anonymous. ( https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/joannearnoldefforts )
'Do as you see fit for a suffering person from a suffering person.'
A donation from someone who knows the streets. Harder streets than these.Knows isolation cells down in the basements of prisons. Knows heroin addiction. Knows recovery.
Deep regards and unbounded gratitude.
Thank you for teaching me to look a bit closer. Look a bit longer. Both into the light. And into the dark...
Thank you for teaching me to look a bit closer. Look a bit longer. Both into the light. And into the dark. There are treasures everywhere. Happy Birthday Anne Madden.
Away from this drama or that, the mist collects on your leading edge regardless of any notice of this...or that.
Away from this drama or that, the mist collects on your leading edge regardless of any notice of this...or that.
In perfect order when all else seems upended. Watching this impulse of great hurt.
In perfect order when all else seems upended. Watching this impulse of great hurt.
So, it's tender. I think about, and name the long litany of names...
So, it's tender. I think about, and name the long litany of names and feel all the ones I know personally who have died from fatal overdoses. The ones I loved. And still love. I think of so many folks I know who have lost count of all the people they have lost. Imagine that? LOST COUNT. They can no longer remember after the first 15 or 20 deaths.
And the ones that struggle now. That struggle mightily. The siren call of the drug de jour that doesn't give a sh**. But, oh, the call away from pain. The call toward a tremulous relief. Like these little raindrops. Clinging and temporary. Beautiful and at a different scale no different than boulders.
Inevitable falls. And maybe that is the rhythm of a life that is chosen.
All I can do is collect raindrops in my own folds and know they drop like boulders on some.
Folks are scattered this morning and one young man is arranging his pack under a staircase...
Dear Anonymous,
Folks are scattered this morning and one young man is arranging his pack under a staircase off the street in an alley.
This is how the hairs on his arms were. Each hair a jungle of drops beginning to collect the dew and the rain. He comes over with a smile.
'I called my parents.' he says with a voice buoyed by something. Maybe hope.
'I wanna' go home.' he continues and the tone goes down an octave.
'I hope they come get me.' he adds with what sounds like a question, a doubt. Maybe fear.
Then,' I miss my little baby girl.'
His daughter is 2 and a half years old.
I hope he can go home.
'I don't wear collared shirts.' he states though I do notice he is wearing one...
Dear Anonymous,
'I don't wear collared shirts.' he states though I do notice he is wearing one. He is emphatic. His speech punctuated with meaning.
'Last time I wore one of those was at my partners' funeral. We were together three and a half years. I changed his diapers at the end. No mention of me in the obituary. No mention of me at the funeral. His sister, she took everything...'
and then he is choked up. No words. A long painful moment, a perplexingly long inhalation that has stopped and I just want to breathe for him.
'I'll take the shirt.'
It is a Ralph Lauren. I tell him Ralph would be lookin' good on him. We smile.
He suddenly animates himself,eyes to the leaden sky. 'Faaaaaaahhhhhhccccckkkkkkkkkkk. And now the rain!'
He leaves. What is it we leave. What is it we carry forward like him, in a wobbly shopping cart lifted from across the bridge in another town. Filled with the crumpled and broken. With the redeemable. With our baggage placed alternately with tenderness and violence.