There's no place like this place

I can't say I was a close friend of Mr. Mirvish, but somehow I was saddened to hear of his passing last month. So flashy, so garish, so original, so uniquely himself. And in being himself became so much a part of Toronto. Goodbye, Honest Ed.

Reflections from the Streets

Last week I went on a four day street retreat in Vancouver. I just wrote a sermon about my experiences. This is not the sermon, but some random pieces that didn't make the final cut, the sermon was just too long.

A little story: once, years ago, when I was working with the Faithful Fools of San Francisco, in the poorest part of the city, I was walking down the street. I saw a stranger come barreling towards me, carrying a bunch of placards under his arm. He was muttering and arguing with himself as he bounded, with huge strides towards me. When he reached me he turned towards me and shouted in my face, “Introvert!” Wow, I know I am an introvert, but I had never realized how apparent it was. The streets are always full of surprises and of the unknown.

On our first night, after dinner in the gathering dusk, we decided to head down Hastings Street. I can't remember why. We didn't get very far when we were stopped by people milling on the sidewalk. They seemed to be in line. So some of us joined the line, even though we didn't know what it was for. The crowd was friendly, lively, in good spirits. We soon found out the line was for candy. Some guy gets candy donations from a bunch of places and comes down to Main and Hastings to distribute them. I didn't really want candy at 10 o'clock at night, with no toothbrush to speak of... so I stepped out of line and stood near the wall. People were sharing lifesavers and Hershey bars. Then I heard someone mention mangoes. Ah, mangoes, how nice would that be? My favourite fruit. I decided to go up to the van and see if there were any mangoes left. When I got there I stuck my head in between a few people looking for mangoes. No mangoes, just candy and chocolate and granola bars. A free for all of sugary sweets. Then I heard, “Hey Fool!” and looked up. I knew the guy helping hand out candy and he came out on the sidewalk and talked to me for a minute. He brought me a chocolate bar and a much coveted Gatorade—Blue Rush and we chatted for a minute. Before he left I asked him if there was any truth to the mango rumour. His face lit up and he ran back to the van and I saw him reach into his secret stash again and he came back with a big, ripe mango. Just for me. I was so grateful. It was so unexpected and after only a few hours on the streets it felt like a little bit of paradise. But I had no knife. So I slipped the mango in my bag for later.

The next morning I saved my plastic knife from breakfast and when we gathered later for meditation and a chance to reflect on our experiences, I pulled out the mango and put it on the altar in the centre of our circle. The practice was that we made an altar each time we sat in a circle, and when one spoke they chose something from the altar as a talking piece. Someone chose the mango. And as we watched he broke out into laughter totally overwhelmed my mango perfume. He spoke and the next person picked it up to share, and to smell the mango. Our mouths were watering by this time. At the end of the council, I cut up our precious mango to share it. And what a treat it was. So sweet and ripe and perfect, rare fresh fruit on the street. And so much sweeter because it was shared with these gentle and vibrant faces, these new friends, my companions on the cold, hard night ground. A simple and beautiful pleasure, but no less grand for its simplicity.

After breakfast, on our first morning, after lying cold all night long, on hard ground; after being woken up by a prostitute and her john looking for a quiet place, and stumbling over some of our group, we were feeling tired and a little weary. We stopped to rest in a park. The sky looked grey a few of us pulled out plastic to cover ourselves with. And promptly all thirteen of us fell asleep in the cool, (but not cold) of the morning. We slept in Robson Park, on Kingsway, near Fraser, close to the Salvation Army, Children and Family Services where we had eaten a big, hot breakfast. And so peacefully, with cars around, and puffy grey clouds above we slept... until a cop car came. Two young police officers got out and came over to us a little hesitantly. It seems someone had called in that there were a bunch of people asleep or maybe dead in the park. And had we committed mass suicide? A few more woke up proving we were in fact alive, laughing at the funny situation. We told the curious cop of how it was that 13 of us were sleeping in a park in the mid-morning. We were on street retreat, living homeless, sleeping out for four days. And none of us had slept well last night in the cold. The cops were nice, one said there was nothing wrong with sleeping in the park, as long as we weren't dead. They wished us luck and went on their way. People were curious, friendly, interested.

Who knew?

With 30 plus years of living in North America under my belt you think I would be able to describe fairly common North American wild animals. But today someone asked me what this one was and I had to look it up to find out. Is it just me? Who out there knows this guy with one quick look? Hands up. Or maybe this little guy isn't as common as I thought.

My Bad

Last night as I was biking home, someone else came whizzing around a round-about, the wrong way. He too was on a bike, and knowing he was in the wrong, said "my bad" as a means of apologizing on his way.

This really bothers me. It's just not right. I can't accept it. Every time I hear it, it just sounds wrong. Now here is my question. Does it mean that I am getting old, not up with what the kids are saying these days (as opposed to when I was say 16 when I surely was up on all the latest music, fashion and slang... oh wait a minute, maybe not)? Or have I become a grammar prude from all my years of teaching ESL?

Does this one bother anyone else but me? Is it just my bad?

Hawaii: two lists

Things I will miss about Hawaii

• sunshine
• incredible rainbows (almost everyday, you could even predict where)
• having only as much stuff as would fit in my airplane luggage allowance
• eating pineapple often
• buying pineapples for a dollar at Times
• wearing sandals everyday
• the great people I met
• aloha shirts
• walking 20 minutes to work
• the turquoise ocean
• snorkeling and amazing, brilliant fish
• the wind, strong but not cold
• neighbourhood karaoke bars
• amazing flowers
• the gentle air, soft and breezy
• living (briefly) near an incredible beach

Things I will not miss at all about Hawaii

• cockroaches (Finally I can speak of their evil ways again. For months I was superstitious that if I spoke of them, they would appear. It happened once or twice, and that was too often for this chicken.)
• poi-- I hear its an acquired taste, and I never acquired the taste.
• getting drenched after walking one block in a downpour
• regularly waking up sweating in the night
• cockroaches
• the humidity that frizzes my hair, moulds the walls and makes even paper sticky and limp
• my cubbyhole room
• living with 7 roomates, each a character in themselves, but 7 is just too many
• few vegetarian options

Comments

Hey!

I just found out that some of you out there in virtual land were not able to comment on my sight. I think I fixed the problem. If you are still having problems, just leave me a comment and I'll try again. Just kidding.

street retreat reflections

Here are some of the reflections I wrote on the 7-day street retreat in San Francisco last week. There were 12 of us on the streets together and we had reflection sessions twice a day. The first piece is from a reflection session where we all drew a strip of paper. We had each written a question, thought or comment on one strip of paper at the previous reflection session.

The strip of paper I drew read:
"The dome of the City's Hall makes the grass grow faster."

I wrote in response:
The grass grows faster than the breakfast line at Glide, if you think it opens at 7 instead of 8.

The grass grows faster than my tired feet take me back once again, more and more reluctantly, to A Woman's Place.

The grass grows faster with a little sun and a little rain.

The dome of city hall is golden like the gentle light of an oatmeal morning, quiet streets, solumn red brick, cold cement-chilled sunlight, perfect for a delicious nap in the sun.

City Hall a jewel of gold and poured concrete.

Adelfa a smiling jewel of foggy blue eyes, swollen ankles and tidy shoes and clothes.

Westfield Center bathrooms a jewel of long late hours and precious paper towels.

Glittering pink jewels sparkling on the sidwalk near Abraham Lincoln.

St. Boniface a jewel of a church for its open doors, clean pews, vaulted ceilings and stained glass.

A jewelled hour of night, when the only sound is gentle breathing, rhythmic snoring, sleeping people.

______________________

And from the last day of the retreat, the final written reflection...

Itchy, dirty, tired. This morning the fog rolled in.

It's nice to finally have my cup of tea. Oh how I love my hot water-- I can't wait to take a hot shower, do laundry, take a nap in bed.

And today I started getting anxious about what next-- I need to start looking for a place to live for next month. Housing, shelter how will I pay for it?

Feel foggy-headed tired. Dry lips, bad posture, partly morning grogginess, partly another night of poor sleep on hard ground. Uncomfortable.

At Glide today a woman told me I looked nice with my hair down for a change. On the way to the Fools Court a man told me he was watching me all morning and was I okay? Okay, I'm okay. But if my days and future ahead of me stretched open without parents, housed friends to lean on-- if I was on the streets, I don't know that I would be okay. I feel desparate.

Weary, exhausted, saddened but okay, because it's over and later today I'll be clean, wearing clean clothes and tonight I'll sleep in a room by myself in a bed with sheets and blankets.