Dear Anonymous,
Hunger on the streets. It's not that there are not sufficient social services providing food. Not my point here nor my expertise.
I am talking hunger. For homemade. Made from scratch. Watched men just out of prison swoon to the flavor of real butter. Holding their wax paper cradle of cake or muffin like a sacrament.
Maybe it is a hunger for what may feel like home to some. Maybe a flavor of deinstitutionalized nourishment.
Always, always 'Is there more?'
Always. Always the eternal insatiable hunger.
He gave permission to be photographed. I have no images of him. So I ask. And this morning it is a yes...
Dear Anonymous,
He gave permission to be photographed. I have no images of him. So I ask. And this morning it is a yes, '...but nobody else. I hate haven' my picture taken.'
I hear you.
And I was honored.Your eyes tell me a story I have no words for.
Coffee cards. Socks. And never enough Blueberry Cake.
Picking up a hand knit neck warmer (thank you Dear Anonymous!) or exchanging coats for a better size, grabbing an extra layer. Do you have any pants? I never have enough. Telling me what was stolen or lost in the last two days. What backpacks have broken. Some arrive every morning with less than yesterday. Some packs are found and they report to me that they find them left somewhere else,abandoned here and there. I'll never know the whole story. I've learned, it is often not what I assume.
Coffee cards. Socks. And good morning to you too.
This is the street....
Dear Anonymous,
This is the street. The arrays of issues are immense. Sometimes I can guess. Sometimes I can know. But all I know for sure is that some of the people in my life who currently shine brilliantly into this world, at one time, also hid. And when they weren't hiding they were spitting mad. And couldn't stand being in their own skin. And were wretched. The ones who shine today with a brilliant soulful light in the world identify with images like this and point and say 'Yes, I remember. That was me.' These young men who are beautiful and clear eyed and contributing members of our community look and say 'Yes, this was me.' And they say it with empathy.
Empathy for the person in the image. Empathy for themselves. And sometimes they shake their own heads wondering how they ever made it out alive. But they did.
So how can I not see their beauty here too?
And had you been standing here in this light, you too would have looked perfect.
And had you been standing here in this light, you too would have looked perfect.
For a moment you threw on your diva's boa and strutted. For a moment.
For a moment you threw on your diva's boa and strutted. For a moment.
Portland Fishing Pier, Sunday Morning Service
Portland Fishing Pier, Sunday Morning Service
He shares a bit about himself. Where he's from. How he got here. His story.
He shares a bit about himself. Where he's from. How he got here. His story.
He eyes the wool blankets in my car and happy to say he walks home with them.
'I sleep on a couch. It's cold.'
Thank you dear Anonymous. You will keep him warm.
He knows the streets and all the players and all the stories and all the outcomes and all the possibilities.
#streetspeaks
What. A. Sweet. Heart.
Outside the home furnishing store. Sometimes this is far better than the alternative....
Outside the home furnishing store. Sometimes this is far better than the alternative. Good morning. Here's some socks. But I don't say it loud.
Gearing up. Switching out backpacks. Broken backpacks replaced. Organizing stuff. And coffee and a piece of cake.
Dear Anonymous,
Gearing up. Switching out backpacks. Broken backpacks replaced. Organizing stuff. And coffee and a piece of cake.
And all he says this morning as he arrives in the dark before dawn, looking up at me leaning, over balancing his pack,
'I'm still trying to get home.'
Damn.
I'm still. Trying to get home.
And a little something buckles inside me. A minuscule thread chaffs just a bit. Plucked. Makes a sound short of a minor key.
We are all looking to find our way home.
Here's some socks along the way. A set of foot warmers. A hoodie.
There will still be a tide to catch; a weather pattern not to miss; a catch to be caught. It will be worth your life. The Mariners way.
There will still be a tide to catch; a weather pattern not to miss; a catch to be caught. It will be worth your life. The Mariners way.
Inside our mariners hearts.
Inside our mariners hearts.
Cauliflower. Brains. Cross sections. Now reminiscent of 60's flower power....
Cauliflower. Brains. Cross sections.Now reminiscent of 60's flower power. Your provocative language written out with only a Rorschach interpretation. God, we must frustrate the hell out of you.
This photo was framed just a second before the one I recently posted that shows everyone smiling.
Dear Anonymous,
This photo was framed just a second before the one I recently posted that shows everyone smiling. Which was the truth in that moment. But this image shows truth too.
A woman showing one my images, an image of a man who turns out to be her cousin David, who struggled living on the street and died recently.
Somehow in her face I see the families of folks who have family members out here. Sometimes unreachable. Irretrievable.
It shows Charles, who knows everyone on the street, recognizing that he too knew David. And that David is dead.
There's lots of loss out here. Lots of pain. Lots of carrying on whether it's with a trudging step, a shuffle or a step after falling. Sometimes it's the sound of someone dragging themselves along the bricks.
But it's life. And it's love. And it's not knowing what to do. And what DO we do when we don't know what to do?
A Dear Anonymous in the flesh, our friend Robin, shows up this morning...
Dear Anonymous ,
A Dear Anonymous in the flesh, our friend Robin, shows up this morning with food, blankets, some clothing and big bags of toys for Mike to share up at the Family Shelter, or with families he knows that could use a lift for their kids.
Hard to tell who was happier and who was gonna have the most fun. The giver. The distributor. Or the kids. It's a win-win-win and he cannot wait.
The conversation turns to more difficult subjects like men who have been sexually abused as children. About how that can manifest into violence and other truly difficult behaviors. It turns toward the damage people can do to one another, particularly to children. And it continued into the injustices connected to some of the lives of those who have been abused. To the pain. And to the very difficult practice of 'doing the right thing'.
Mike is going to walk around the corner with me because a friend is sleeping there. 'But, you ain't goin' alone. That guy who stabbed my arm last year is sleepin' there too.'
I don't need to be the one to deliver the card. I hand him two.
He pauses looking at the card then lifts his eyes to mine,
'Ya' mean for THAT guy too?'
He smiles.
' I get it. What are we supposeed to do....?'
— with Robin Lynn Herrick.
Coffee cards, coffee cake, socks, more coffee cards, more socks ,backpacks, pants and hats and gloves and a sleeping bag and blankets took flight today.
Dear Anonymous,
Coffee cards, coffee cake, socks, more coffee cards, more socks ,backpacks, pants and hats and gloves and a sleeping bag and blankets took flight today. And near the end of the morning gathering he stops by with a big smile.
Shows me the backpack he has had since he received it here from Dear Anonymous in November #maggiesmission. Wanted to make sure I took note he was still using it.
Photo with permission. Even took his hat off for a moment.
Then a woman trudges by. Small in frame. Looks cold.Hood up. No eye contact.
In a moment the guys sort of indicate it's ok and she comes over and we chat.
She's tender. And cold. And we get her set up with a coat and a vest. 'Can't put it on now, got no bra on.' and raises her eyes to the group of guys a few yards away from us.
'All my stuff is in my boyfriend's car.'
She is walking vulnerability.
Fill her bag with handwarmers and foot warmers and socks and toiletries.
Something about her boyfriend locking her out of his car where all her gear is.
Something from me about careful hangin' with folks that lock you out. Once said I wished I could rush out, collect those words and toss them to the ocean before they arrive at her ears.
'But I love him.' And she cries. Her nose is red. Her coat insufficient. Her boots wet.
She is grateful for the resources and a hot cup of coffee.
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
Charles, a lovely man we set up today with backpacks and handwarmers to distribute to the kids he finds on the streets.
Dear Anonymous,
Charles, a lovely man we set up today with backpacks and handwarmers to distribute to the kids he finds on the streets. He buys pencils and notebooks and puts them inside the packs for them. 'I don't know what else to do.' he says.
And this is Robin, a woman who arrived with food and blankets and more.
I only met Robin this year. She has had a lifelong career in social services.
She is holding an image of mine of her cousin David who I knew as a worker down on Custom House Wharf.
Come to find out we ALL knew him out on the street. Everyone nodding, yes, we know him. He was part of this street community. He died a couple of years ago.
This image floated up in Facebook's memory this past fall via a Facebook friend connection and Robin identified it as her family member and we connected.
On a little patch of dirty pavement she opens the envelope to see her cousin.There may have been a few tears. And the guys out here on the street realize they all knew him and that he's gone. A brief street memorial. With few words.
Connection.
Connection.
Connection.
— with Robin Lynn Herrick.
I met a man from Venezuela this morning. A US citizen. His family scattered around the world.
I met a man from Venezuela this morning. A US citizen. His family scattered around the world.
'There is no food at home ( in Venezuela ). No medications. We must send help home to the few family members there that are too ill to try and leave. Here it is different. I worry about getting clothing for my children. There I worry about staying alive.It is different'
MaineWorks Circle. Is it about recovery and struggles with the opioid crisis and alcoholism? Well, yes. But what's really at hand here?....
MaineWorks Circle. Is it about recovery and struggles with the opioid crisis and alcoholism? Well, yes. But what's really at hand here?
The crisis of becoming human when you can no longer wash away the pain. When your rock bottom includes purposelessness or meaninglessness. What is it you are showing up to and what will make it be absolutely delicious to do so?
MaineWorks founder Margo Walsh arriving before the circle, her hands suggesting the seemingly simple sorcery necessary to make a life here.
MaineWorks founder Margo Walsh arriving before the circle, her hands suggesting the seemingly simple sorcery necessary to make a life here.
'Show up. Work hard. Do it again. Then do it again. Stop the complaints. Let go of the grip of ego.And let all your dreams unfold from that. First? Show up. Work hard. Do what is asked of you. Do it well. Do it again.'
They stood there....
They stood there. I thought 'pillars of the community'. I thought well, this is piling it on. I thought of the piles of bills on my desk.