Our birth and death are easy hours, like sleep
and food and drink. The struggle staggers us
for bread, for pride, for simple dignity.
And this is more than fighting to exist;
more than revolt and war and human odds.
There is a journey from the me to you.
There is a journey from the you to me.
A union of the two strange worlds must be.– The Struggle Staggers Us, Margaret Walker
Every week, and several times at that, I drive past a community organization called The Compass, where people who have fallen on hard times can go to find food, employment assistance, emergency money, spiritual and emotional support, and a sense of belonging. It’s quite the thing driving past the place that is sandwiched between two hubs of extreme wealth–Port Credit and Lorne Park. So while the Bentleys and the Botox babes stream past, there, on the corner, every day, you will find a gathering of souls, the “Lakeshore trash” milling about, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and waiting for what might be their only meal of the day. And so it is, as I drive by, that I do not find myself shaking my head in pity and saying, “Those poor bastards.” Instead, I often repeat, “There but for the grace of God go I.” Despite the fact that I live in a comfortable home and can afford the luxury of a car, I see myself in those struggling souls; I am not different. One day, I too could be standing outside The Compass; there is no guarantee against it.
Over the years, I have had close connections to people who have fallen on hard times. It’s remarkable how they look just like you and me…because they are you and me. The teenage boy who, in trying to save his sanity and his very skin, has no choice but to run from his abusive home to the city streets. The young woman from an upper middle class family who survives a horrendous traffic accident, but not without almost losing her leg. In struggling to put her life together again, she has to go on welfare to support herself and her young daughter. The proud, hard-working woman who is afraid her husband is going to kill them all so, she shoves her kids in the car while he’s away at work, and drives off to another state. She spends month after month looking for work but nobody wants her. She has to go on welfare to put food in her children’s mouths. The man who lost time from work for a few weeks due to illness. No work, no money. Now he loses sleep wondering how he can rob Peter to pay Paul. What can he sell? How does he bridge the gap between zero dollars in his accounts and the rent that is about to come due? One wrong move and it could mean he’s out on the street.
I have a face for every one of those stories. I have looked into those desperate eyes. I have smelled the stench of terror on their breath. I have touched their skin. I have loved them all. And I have been desperate right along with them.
There are so many stories like these. Sometimes it seems that everywhere you turn you see a desperate, suffering face. It can grow deep, dark despair in your own heart when it feels like, no matter what you do, you can’t stop the suffering. Isn’t that what all people want in the end anyway, to stop the suffering?
So, what can we do? Well, we can throw money at it, but I don’t think that’s enough. Sometimes we need to get dirty. Sometimes we need to look into the suffering eyes and really hear the pain, the sorrow, the despair; we need to take it all in. We need to have our hearts torn open and we need to hurt right along with those who are in front of us. We need to ask from the purity of our hearts, “How may I best serve you?” Maybe the answer is risking a tirade and showing up with enough groceries to fill the cupboards of a proud soul. Maybe it’s taking a chance at being annoying and firing off emails to everyone you know to help someone find work. Maybe it’s taking time out of your schedule to do the laundry of someone who is frail and housebound. Maybe it’s opening your doors and taking someone in so they don’t have to sleep on the street.
Nothing about any of that is easy. It’s asking for a lot, but it’s what we do when we realize we’re all in this together and if we don’t stick together, we’re not going to make it. It’s what happens when we know we’re no different from the ones standing outside of The Compass waiting to eat someone else’s food because they don’t have any of their own. It’s what happens when we risk and we Love.
Love is not patronizing and charity isn’t about pity, it is about love. Charity and love are the same — with charity you give love, so don’t just give money but reach out your hand instead.― Mother Teresa, A Simple Path: Mother Teresa
Here’s my hand, in case you need it:
If you’d like to extend yours, I’ll be happy to hold it.
Travelling with you in the human boat,
Tabitha
The Courage to Stay Open
Posted in Commentary, Community, Healing, inspiration, tagged Buddha, Gandi, Jesus, keeping the heart open, Mother Teresa on March 13, 2013 | Leave a Comment »
My yoga teaching career began in the dusty corner of a church basement. This was the same church I had gone to as a child and even though I had stormed away from the place at the ripe old age of 18, there was a certain comfort in coming back. There was something special about offering the yogic path in a sacred space that was open to spiritual community, that was filled with the pungent scent of incense, and that, from time to time, offered the voice of the choir as background music. There was an ease to those days when I would skip down the church stairs to the basement, bags of towels and blocks in hand, to clear the always-cluttered back corner and to make space for my students. Eventually my series ended and my classes shifted to the professional space in my home.
Last June, I found myself back at the church to discuss the possibility of running another series in the basement. I remember walking through the doors, rounding the corner to the hallway that led to the church offices and stopping dead in my tracks. In 36 years of association with the place, I had never seen anything like what was facing me–WALLS. Walls had been built around the offices, completely obscuring them from view, and the windowless door that led inward had a security keypad attached to it. There were no signs but the message was clear–KEEP OUT! For the first time ever, I felt unwelcome in this place.
The meeting went well and it was decided that I would run another series come January, but a few things had changed. I would no longer be able to simply arrive at any time and begin to set up. The doors to the church basement were now permanently locked until 45 minutes before any session was to take place. More blockage…less flow. All of this, the walls upstairs and the locked doors below were the results of parishioners not respecting the personal space of the priest upstairs, and community members thoroughly trashing the holding space downstairs that contained donations of food and furniture for those in need. It makes sense, then, doesn’t it, to build walls and lock doors?
But does it?
Since we’re talking about a holy place here, I can’t help but think of the Christian, “What would Jesus do?” Or Gandhi. Or Mother Teresa. Or Buddha. Would these highly compassionate forward-thinkers put up walls and send out a message to keep out? I can’t help but think–NO. Somewhere in my bones I get the sense that these great people would resist the urge to close down and would instead open themselves up further. They would throw open the doors. They would invite people IN to their homes. They would wait in the space that has the goods-for-donation and open a discussion with those who had come to destroy. I imagine them asking, “What’s going on for you right now? How can I help you?”
That’s the hard stuff, isn’t it? Staying open when we feel violated or betrayed. Daring to allow for free movement and connection even when it makes us incredibly uncomfortable. We humans don’t like that much. Punt us out of our comfort zones or trounce on spots we take personally and we’re suddenly up in arms, defending “our” space, and rushing off to the hardware store to buy drywall and an alarm system.
When I told K. about the locked doors and newly built walls, and the reasons behind them, she asked, “Do you blame them?” I was surprised by my answer:
I expect more from them. I expect them to lead by example, to take the hard road and to remain open. I expect them to demonstrate how to bridge the divide between people and, in that way, stand as true beacons of peace in this world.
But churches are, after all, places filled with humans with all of our foibles, and when walls are built against certain people, it speaks to me about the wounded hearts of those who lead these communities. So maybe, then, it comes down to each individual, to you and me. Maybe the task is for each and every one of us to take up the great challenge of staying soft and open even when we feel betrayed. Maybe we need to learn to bridge the gap between ourselves and the ones with whom we quarrel. I don’t think the end result is as important as the process, so maybe that gap will never be bridged but you, in making the attempt, have grown warrior-soft in the heart. In that way, you help make this a better world.
I dream of the day when:
KEEP OUT!
is replaced with:
Can you imagine what that would do for this world? I can, so I keep working to inch this crusty heart open. Will you join me?
In love and daring,
Tabitha
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