Dear Anonymous,
She woke up later on as I was leaving town and I happened to have clothing that fit her. She is a larger size woman and her eyes lit up when I was (we were) able to hand her a denim jacket and shirts and shorts that fit. (thank you Dear Anonymous...talk about timing!)
Her smile was extra large and her voice full of gravel and gratitude. And a hot coffee to look forward to. And a fresh bottle of water.
I have two windows in my bedroom. A bedroom that is dry. I have no one that threatens me in that space. A bathroom close by. I am counting these blessings. Counting. Counting. Counting.
I also understand she may not want these things that I count as blessings. Nor the responsibilities or stresses related to these 'blessings'. I hold that too.
But the gift this morning of her full face smile. That voice with deep treads. A flower in the street garden. Thank you.
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.
A room with a lovely view. Paths beaten down. Plastic bags strewn...
A room with a lovely view. Paths beaten down. Plastic bags strewn. Empty food and beverage containers. A bicycle wheel. Some wet clothing melding into the soil.I cannot imagine there will be less of this soon.
I was out with my camera per usual at first light. On my own. Per usual. As I drove out of the city...
Dear Anonymous,
I was out with my camera per usual at first light. On my own. Per usual. As I drove out of the city I saw him sitting on a park bench by himself in the sun. Hat off. One arm over the back of the bench. Looking relaxed. He recognizes my car. I pull over. Mask. Check. Gloves. Check. Social distance. Check. If I am asymptomatic I sure as hell don't want him exposed. That's why.
He places two crumpled twenty dollar bills into the bin in my car.
'Get some baking supplies. I like your baking.' he says.
His face is swollen. His speech thick and raspy all at once.
I ask him to reconsider. Take back half? No, he says adamantly.
He responds, 'I got my stimulus check.'
I know he has recently enjoyed a bottle of Jamesons, a favorite of his. I assume there will be many more purchased.
But I am on the street and someone on the street, in the street, of the street has donated to Dear Anonymous.
Let that sink in a bit.
He accepts socks, a coffee card and a pair of pants. The currency of connection.
PS: The gentleman described is not connected in any way to the location in this image.
Where I have found you sleeping in the past.
Where I have found you sleeping in the past.
And that part of us, sometimes obscure and locked away, that part of each of us no matter what, that is mother, sits close by when the wind is up.
Dear Anonymous,
Rock-a bye baby / on the tree top. / When the wind blows / the cradle will rock. / When the bough breaks, / the cradle will fall. / And down will come Baby, / Cradle and all.
And that part of us, sometimes obscure and locked away, that part of each of us no matter what, that is mother, sits close by when the wind is up. With arms open. And a good catch.
No strings attached.
Socks? Coffee card? Hand warmers. Sure thing.
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
Different park. Different day. Same though. Same.
Different park. Different day. Same though. Same.
Safe for the moment
Safe for the moment
Early. Before the tourists. Before the merchants. There is sleep on the steps to the cathedral.
Early. Before the tourists. Before the merchants. There is sleep on the steps to the cathedral.
All dressed up.
All dressed up.
Alternative title: The Sleep of the Blessed
Our Lady of the Calle. How she sleeps.
Our Lady of the Calle. How she sleeps.
Your neighborhood. Mine. Your untold story and the story that is written.
Your neighborhood. Mine. Your untold story and the story that is written.
When I lay at the feet of your temple will you let me in?
When I lay at the feet of your temple will you let me in?
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.
I had only seen him with hat and hood up. Then. He let his hair down.
I have a necklace that I collect all the little charms that have been gifted to me. This man, who knows the streets well, gave me a little pendant he found. An enamel pendant. It has an image of a lotus blossom on it and though he may not have been familiar with the imagery we both laughed and smiled when I referred to the symbolism attached to it. Of a beautiful flower blossoming but only because it is rooted in the mud. From the mud and mess and muck a beautiful flower can blossom. ‘Right on.’, he said. ’Right on.’
I quietly left socks and a coffee card, from you, Dear Anonymous.
Dear Anonymus,
I quietly left socks and a coffee card, from you, Dear Anonymous.
Said 'Good morning.' quietly.
He lifts his head. Disheveled from sleep and asks,
'You from the VA?'
'No. I am not.' But I ask,
'Need a sleeping bag?'
He brightens. It's a yes.
I find a heavy, water resistant and thermal Carhartt sweatshirt, too. I offer him coffee cake.
He smiles just a tiny bit.
And there is a tale of someone handing out mummy sleeping bags from his pick up truck last night. Thank you, sir.
Semper fi.
Thank you, Dear Anonymous.
Handle with care.
Dear Anonymous,
Handle with care.
The instructions read: Handle with care.
Coffee cake and socks.
A blanket for a friend walking around the corner.
Thank you Dear Anonymous.
Perhaps it will be easier together.
Dear Anonymous,
Perhaps it will be easier together.
Thank you Dear Anonymous, for donations of sleeping bags, shirts, and more back packs.
In this way, this IS easier together. Thank you.
He places his shoes to the side. Lined up. Organized.
Dear Anonymous,
He places his shoes to the side. Lined up. Organized. The way some people place their slippers beside their bed.
New socks, a coffee card and a piece of coffee cake left close by those shoes.
Two shoes. LIned up. Just so. On the bricks.
I try not to disturb him.
I read 'Delivery times may vary based on location.'
The irony.
Folks were clear headed this morning.
Dear Anonymous,
Folks were clear headed this morning. Specific with what they may need. Some of them apologize for their rude behavior yesterday. Seems one of the regulars on the street seems to be getting under folks skin lately. Nerves are raw. Frustration high. Resiliency a rare commodity.On the best of days. Still they speak about him and others with care. They nod toward a woman sitting a bit away from us. They say she's sleeping on the streets.
They bring her over and she is hesitant to take too much. First of all because she has to carry it. Secondly because she only wants to take her share. Damn, she is young.
She walks away with a new backpack she has chosen and a warm wool blanket (thank you Dear Anonymous), a beautiful hand knit sweater and a vest. Some socks, which she was worried about this morning. A coffee card and a piece of coffee cake. Her face glows in the light from the storefronts.
I see her but honest I see me, my daughters, my friends daughters and our granddaughters.
She is grateful and thanks you all, Dear Anonymous. I have no heart to lift my camera to her face in that moment but around the corner is a couple of people wrapped in a pink fleece. Tucked into a storefront. The view from the coffee shop.They will wake to socks, and coffee cake. And a view of people sitting having coffee.