Boston Street Retreat: August 2023

MBTA red line subway train arriving at platform

Five weeks ago I waved good-bye to the last of my seven companions. We were parting ways after four days and nights of living on the streets of Boston and Cambridge. Peter stepped onto the subway platform, the doors closed, and as the train resumed its journey I wondered about my own. I’d been taken to a new space where old rules and outworn habits had been stripped away.

Now what?

I’m still answering that question several weeks later. Our facilitator Joshin Byrnes recommended a soft landing of spaciousness instead of creating a narrative prematurely, and I’ve taken that advice to heart.

How long does it take for a rose to recognize the effect of a blind woman dipping her nose into its bloom and breathing deeply? When does snow understand how it has changed after a skier lays parallel tracks through pine trees?

At this point I have inklings, which I’ll share in blog posts as they form a more definitive shape. Before I offer my first inkling, I think it would be helpful to explain what, exactly, a Street Retreat is.

In 1994, a Zen Buddhist named Bernie Glassman led the first street retreat in Washington D.C., contemplating the question of what to do to serve those rejected by society, those in poverty and those with AIDS. Afterwards he and his wife established the Zen Peacemaker Order, “a religious order with a strong social action component that would bear witness on the streets, at sites of atrocity, and meet the troubles of the world,” as described on the Zen Peacemakers website.

“I want to figure out how to learn from those who have suffered in a certain way, even though I can’t fully enter that realm. So we go on the streets. I know we aren’t homeless and I make that quite clear. At the same time those who came will experience something that is closer to that world than those who haven’t been there. This is the meaning of ‘bearing witness.’ It’s like entering a church knowing you’re not God or the priest. But you will experience something different from someone who stays out of the church or someone who is just hired to fix the roof.”

– Bernie Glassman 

Joshin Barnes, the founder of Bread Loaf Mountain Zen Community and a former student of Bernie, has led many, many Street Retreats throughout the United States. As the facilitator of the Boston Street Retreat in August 2023, Joshin brought a calm, mindful and clear consciousness that almost immediately helped me to feel at ease. Sitting in a circle on the Cambridge Commons with my new companions that first day, meditating and then sharing during Council, the earth beneath me felt solid, the trees around me protective. Trust surprised me with its gentle bloom.

That’s not to say I thought the experience would be easy. In my backpack I carried a blanket, a print-out of the chants we would use throughout the four days, a pen and small notebook, a tube of sunscreen, a floppy hat, Nanopuff pullover and rain poncho. No money. No credit card. No phone. No change of clothes or hygiene products. Not even a tooth brush. I was entirely at the mercy of Joshin, my companions and the citizens of Boston and Cambridge. What would that mercy look like?

Although we intended to find nourishment at soup kitchens, we would not stay overnight in any shelters, even if eight beds had miraculously been available. We would sleep on hard surfaces. Or at least attempt to sleep. I was pretty sure sleep would not come easily for me. How much of a zombie would I be after being deprived of sleep for four days and nights? None of us had a tent. We would be exposed.

At this point you may well be wondering why I signed up for this experience. When I first read about the Street Retreat, deep down I knew I needed to participate. For more than a decade I’ve served people on the margins, including those who are homeless, offering a loving presence, food, beverages and an ear to hear their troubles and celebrations. In return I’ve received a greater understanding of homelessness and contributing factors. And I’ve always returned to a home with a refrigerator, running water and a cozy bed. I’ve wondered how people manage to live on the streets. And what it would be like to beg. As I imagined the Street Retreat, my enthusiasm quickly shifted to apprehension.

It took four months for me to work up the courage to sign up for the August 2023 Street Retreat in Boston. How many months will it take to gain a full awareness of the significance of this retreat?

Jesus Is a Hobo

Jesus Is a Hobo

I met a hobo with dark hair and a black eye. He said his name was Scott. It was a hot July day in St. Paul, temperature in the 90s, and Scott was sitting in the shade of a bridge under the freeway. The path I was on divided him from the train tracks. As I rolled past on my bicycle we made eye contact and greeted one another.

That could easily have been the end of the story. When I’m on foot or riding a bicycle I often greet those whom I encounter, then never see them again.

Jesus is a hobo on a fast freight outta Denver,
huddled up under a twin stack his back
against the rain.

Back in the sunlight, an inner voice told me to bring water back to Scott. Maybe a little food, too. I’d like to say that I responded to this voice without hesitation. However, as is often the case, another voice countered with excuses. “He won’t be there when you get back. It’s a waste of your time. He’s a hobo, he knows how to take care of himself.” Usually that voice prevails.

Not this time.

At home I filled a bottle with water and placed that and an apple and a banana in my pannier. Almost an hour later I approached the bridge, half expecting Scott to be gone, but he was sitting in the very same spot. “Would you like some water?” I asked. Scott eagerly stood up and navigated his way through the rock bed to accept my offer. “Thank you for your kindness,” he said, reaching with a misshapen hand. His forefinger stopped at the knuckle and his fourth finger ended at the top joint. Frostbite? I didn’t ask.

He’s hoping to make the west coast
his food is running low.
He’s been traveling on these roads
for 2000 years or more.

Although his skin was tanned dark, I noticed a dark circle around his left eye. Scott thanked me for the water. I asked if he was just passing through. “Just waiting for the train. Headed for Michigan,” he said, adding that he was looking forward to cleaning up when he got there. Scott’s coveralls were fairly clean. Only his stringy hair and dirty fingernails gave him away as someone who had not showered lately. I pulled the apple out of the pannier and said I’d brought bananas, too. The wheels of a train heading toward St. Paul squealed, making it difficult to hear one another. Scott eyed the apple, then said, “No, thanks, I’m good,” which wasn’t surprising since he had only a few teeth, and with exposed roots long and brown, those teeth looked to be soon outward bound.

I told Scott I’d seen him when I had ridden past earlier. “You seemed like a nice man and I wanted to bring you food and water.” He looked at me with a sideways glance as if to size me up: was this woman who arrived on a bicycle for real? I’m not always the best judge of character. But the few minutes I’d spent with Scott confirmed my intuition. He was polite and thoughtful, offering his hand when I asked his name. He spoke economically, disinclined to chat. Scott scrambled up the inclined slab of concrete, back to his perch beside a flat day pack, sat down and looked at me, not unkindly.

Jesus is a hobo in a jungle near LA,
where nobody really knows him even if they know his face.
They’ll stare into his eyes
a disciple from the past
but the moment’s gone and lost
in the engine’s long low whine.

The next day I ran on the same path, wondering if I would see Scott. Coming around the corner I saw only concrete where Scott had been sitting. I imagined him on a train headed East and felt relief over not having to concern myself anymore with his welfare. The trail did not loop so I returned the same way, and this time Scott was sitting under the same bridge, but closer to the bike path. He was leaning over, possibly vomiting. “Scott!” I called out. “Are you ok?” He lifted his head as if startled. “Yeah.” He paused. “I haven’t eaten in 30 days,” he said, his voice soft and weak. It didn’t seem possible for him to be mobile if he hadn’t eaten in 30 days. I probably misheard him. But clearly he needed food. I said I would bring him something and asked what he would like “Anything,” was his answer. “Ok,” I’ll be back shortly,” I said. “Thank you, sweetheart,” was Scott’s answer.

What is the best food for a man who hasn’t eaten in many days and has hardly any teeth? Why did Scott have no food? Why was he still in St. Paul, watching the trains but not hopping on one? Why, of all the people who passed by, am I the one who is helping him? Why did I not pull the bananas out of my pannier for Scott the day before? Why did I have a surplus of food, but Scott did not?

At home I spread peanut butter on gluten free bread and looked for other soft food I could bring: energy bars, blueberries. I filled a water bottle. At a nearby restaurant I pondered the menu. Salmon? Eggs? Potatoes? I settled on an egg, cheese, and bacon sandwich on a croissant. The man needed calories.

Jesus is a hobo, he never left us here,
caught a fast one from Calvary
and he’s been riding ever since.

Scott had moved to a spot in the sun, closer to the bicycle path. He turned as I approached, then nodded, remaining seated on the pavement, a pack of cigarettes within arm’s reach. I crouched beside him, handing him food pulled from my pannier. Scott surprised me by putting his arm around my shoulders and thanking me. “I got jumped,” he said, pointing to the left side of his face. I saw now that his cheek had been cut open and was scabbed over. “I’ve been resting here, trying to heal.” His vulnerability stunned me. What would it be like to attacked and lose what few belongings I had? How would I trust that the food and water offered by a stranger was safe to eat? At what age is a hobo too old to expose himself to the evils of the world? I wondered if the ride to Michigan would be Scott’s last.

“Are you going to be ok?” I asked, hoping he would say yes. It wasn’t that I had tired of helping him. My heart was overflowing with sorrow.

Jesus is a hobo riding south outta St. Paul
seeing a cathedral through the snowflakes
and bracing against the cold.
When he gets to Rock Island maybe there he’ll let ‘em know
that underneath his coveralls he wears a purple robe.

Back at the artist cooperative where I live, I rode the elevator with a neighbor and told him briefly about helping Scott. My neighbor stiffened. “They’re everywhere,” he said. He was right. At any time of day I can find a homeless person within minutes of leaving my building.

The name of every one of them is Jesus.

Yr gonna need me, yr gonna need me
But can you find me, where you look.

Yr gonna need me, yr gonna need me
You can’t always see the truth.

“Jesus Is a Hobo” is one of my favorite songs by Charlie Parr.