I dislike this time of the year. It always takes all my internal strength to get through it. Perhaps, it is no different from the rest of the year, except, it seems that the stage lights are always on and it is very bright, from November to January. There is no darkness to escape to.
It reminds me of a Woody Allen joke. “When you go to have a colonoscopy, right before the procedure, they inject you with Propofol, a drug that allows you to experience the most delightful and restful sleep, while the procedure is being performed. Therefore, death must be like a colonoscopy… Problem is, life is like the prep day for it.”
This is the story of a freshly minted homeless man of sixty years and his foray into the community of the disinherited. Before this, he was like you and me. He had a roof over his head, for now, and he did not worry about this month’s food bills, for now. And he had his false friends, for now.
This necessitous group of people, (men, women and children) have always seemed nearby. I pass them every day. But that is not exactly what I am trying to impart. I have always felt that I (we) are inches away from a comparable destitution. A kiss away from being unloved. An ache away from becoming hideous. An accident away from being stranded and still. A medical condition away that drops one on an island without help or hope. And boom...we now share a crate at night under the bridge.
This population also confuses me. I have never understood what is my part in their existence. Should they be ignored? Should I contribute what I have in my pocket to them? Should I engage them in conversation or should I keep walking? To this day, I remain unreconciled. I do not have any answers. It has always caused internal turmoil. Whatever actions I may have taken have never satisfied me. I have never surfaced this sea feeling good about myself and my deeds or lack of them in regards to this segment of humanity.
It was not an easy story to read. But I needed to read it.
I just closed the book now and started writing this non-essential commentary, unaware until this moment of how it dovetailed startlingly with Thanksgiving and Christmas and the New Year.
The book has not made me an authority on the subject, but it did provide some insight into it.
I guess it is important for us all to be grateful for whatever we have, whether it is a couple of dollars in the bank, a loved one, sufficient health, the ability to read our books, and lapses of peace.
As far as I can tell, though, we are all part of the same community. We all suffer, in different degrees, throughout life.
Homeless or not.
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On and on the rain will fall
Like tears from a star
Like tears from a star
On and on the rain will say
How fragile we are
How fragile we are
--Sting