Boston Street Retreat: August 2023

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Boston Street Retreat: August 2023

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?

Beginner bus

Wendy public transportation, Uncategorized , 0 Comment
Beginner bus

As a middle-aged man boards the 63 bus at Alina Health he says to the driver, “I just found out that I don’t have cancer!” The driver congratulates him. “It’s always nice to know that I’ll live longer,” replies the man. He feeds two dollar bills into the fare machine. It’s rush hour. The driver doesn’t charge him the extra 50 cents. 

The man shuffles to the handicap seat behind the driver. As he sits, he holds a white envelope in front of him, thumb and fingers at each edge, as if it’s a rare manuscript he does not want to crease or fold. At the top left corner is the Alina Health Cancer Research logo. Otherwise the envelope is blank. 

Although a pale yellow mask covers most of the man’s face, I see that his skin is grayish and tough, like a rhino’s. Smoker? It’s March in Minnesota, and the temperature outside is just above freezing yet he’s wearing just a sweater. A nice sweater and, like his olive-colored sweatpants, probably designer clothing, close fitting, not baggy. As the bus lurches over potholes along Grand Avenue, the man holds the envelope in front of him, as if a screen through which he’s watching flashbacks to his past, mistakes made, graces granted. The images fade to white: a tabula rasa, a blank slate, a new beginning. As Mary Oliver asks in one of her poems, what to do with this one precious life?

Rainer Maria Rilke offers this:

So, like children, we begin again
To learn from the things,
Because they are in God’s heart;
They have never left him.

This is what the things can teach us:
To fall,
Patiently to trust our heaviness.
Even a bird has to do that
Before he can fly.

A young man I’ve seen before boards the bus. A teenager, whose large expressive eyes seem to look with wonder at all that transpires before him. He takes a seat across the aisle from me and stares out the window as the bus navigates around poorly parked cars.

Here’s the invitation: in one hand we gently hold a future glowing with possibilities, and in the other we gently hold impermanence, the knowledge that our days our numbered. There is no guarantee of a tomorrow. 

Both the cancer-free man and the wide-eyed teenager serve as our teachers today, reminding us of the importance of a beginner’s mind, of seeing life in a new way, breaking free of habitual thoughts and patterns. 

tree bud

The March 19, 2023 daily meditation from the Center for Action and Contemplation offers this insight from Richard Rohr:

“Notice when Jesus counsels the beginner’s mind. Every time he welcomes little children, it’s when the disciples are discussing topics that to this day lend themselves to heady, ideological discussions. One group can come down as right and the other group can come down as wrong. Basically, Jesus says it’s a waste of time. He’s telling them, ‘You’re not seeking truth; you’re seeking to be in control.’

Jesus says the only people who can recognize and be ready for what he’s talking about are the ones who come with the mind and heart of a child. It’s the same reality as the beginner’s mind. The older we get, the more we’ve been betrayed and hurt and disappointed, the more barriers we put up to the beginner’s mind. We move further away from the immediate delight and curiosity of small children. We must never presume that we see, and we must always be ready to see anew. But it’s so hard to go back, to be vulnerable, and to say to our soul that ‘I don’t know anything.’

Try to say that: ‘I don’t know anything.’ We used to call it tabula rasa in Latin. Maybe we could think of ourselves as an erased blackboard, ready to be written on. By and large, what blocks spiritual teaching is the assumption that we already know, or that we don’t need to know. We have to pray for the grace of beginner’s mind. We need to say with the blind man, ‘I want to see’ (Mark 10:51).

Spirituality is about seeing. It’s not about earning or achieving. It’s about relationship rather than results or requirements. Once we see, the rest follows. We don’t need to push the river, because we’re in it. The life is lived within us, and we learn how to say yes to that life.”

How are you saying yes to life today?

Hamster-ass alleluias on the Green Line

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Hamster-ass alleluias on the Green Line

A sturdy Black man boards the train at Prospect Park. In his 40s, he’s midway between hail-Mary hope and a shuffling resignation. Tonight, the train’s lights piercing the dark, he’s blissed out on hip-hop, belting out lyrics. 

“Fuck the police.”

He climbs steps to the raised section and sits with his back against the conductor’s cabin. Eyes closed, holding his phone up like a lantern, he searches the song for places where he can enter, yelling the words he recalls. “The niggas on the street is a majority.” Why broadcast the lyrics with such exuberance on the light rail? Maybe he’s being bold. Or maybe he’s just high.

Either way, I’m irritated. I’ve come from a closing reception for an exhibition, where conversations flowed non-stop for hours. I’m craving silence. Instead, the trains wheels squeal at a high pitch around curves and I’m trapped in a train car with a human amplifier. 

“You hamster-ass nigga. You just stuck in a loop.”

Two teenagers across the aisle from the man seem oblivious to these outbursts. Chattering and laughing, heads leaning toward each other, they’re making their own music and they don’t seem to mind his mixing in.

Oh please, mister, please be quiet. Surely the conductor hears these outbursts. Surely the cabin door will fly open at the next stop and the conductor will sternly advise the man to turn down his volume. I sigh as the cabin door remains closed.

Green line light rail in St Paul, Minnesota

At the Snelling Avenue stop a Black woman wearing loose, robe-like clothing boards the train and takes a seat halfway between me and the amplifier, facing me. 

“I’ve got 99 problems, but a bitch ain’t one.”

The outbursts gain momentum as the man listens to a song he knows well. The woman between us fidgets with a pamphlet. Gradually a soprano voice rises from the din, singing just one word, slowly, over and over: alleluia. The clarity of her voice shines like the sun breaking through storm clouds. 

As the woman’s voice grows louder, so does the man’s, Alleluias layer over expletives and profanity layers over alleluias. 

I begin to see the Black man in a different light. Perched in the elevated section of the train car, it’s as if he’s in the pulpit, sharing a liturgy from streets littered with needles and Colt 45 cans, from the confines of a prison cell, from yet another funeral for a Black man killed by the police. He’s reciting psalms of lament, a rapper’s version of “I cried unto the Lord with my voice…I poured out my complaints before him, and showed him of my trouble.” 

As the angelic choir in this impromptu church service on the Green Line, the Black woman sings praises to the One who knows the pain of those who suffer. Her melodious voice softens hearts hardened by the fear of being overwhelmed by the suffering of others, the uneasiness of profiting from systemic oppression.

She softens my heart. 

Take everything

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Take everything

Little did I know when I saw this graffiti on May 13 that in two weeks, looting and burning of buildings would spread like wildfire throughout Minneapolis and St. Paul. I was returning from a walk through the Bruce Vento sanctuary, lush with vibrant shades of green, turtles basking on rocks, redwing blackbirds balancing on cattails gently swayed by the breeze.

I missed that day what the breeze was telling me.

image of graffiti

Take everything

Those two words carry new meanings and nuances in light of the George Floyd murder by police on May 25, the outrage that it triggered, and the rioting which quickly followed.

“Take everything” may have been the slogan of looters. Was their smashing of windows motivated by a sense of lack? An attempt to redistribute wealth? Anger toward the dominant culture? Maybe a stolen lamp serves as a symbol of taking matters into one’s hands instead of continuing the long, agonizing wait for a more equal society where no one lacks food or housing. Tragically, those most affected by the looting and destruction are people of color who lost businesses, jobs, and services in their neighborhood, such as grocery stores and drugstores. 

Image showing a firefighter and police in Minneapolis
Photo by David Joles

“Let my building burn!” That’s how Ruhel Islam responded to the destruction of his restaurant, Gandhi Mahal. For Ruhel, “take everything” points the sacrifice he is willing to make for an end to police brutality. “Let my building burn, justice needs to be served, put those officers in jail.” The Gandhi Mahal building, heavily damaged on May 28th, burned to the ground the following day after the Minneapolis’ Third Precinct caught fire. Ruhel’s daughter Hafsa wrote on social media, “Gandhi Mahal May have felt the flames last night, but our firey drive to help protect and stand with our community will never die! Peace be with everyone. #JusticeforGeorgeFloyd #BLM”

An affordable housing unit under construction burned to the ground on the first night of protesting. I stared at the news in disbelief. Too many people living on the streets in Minneapolis desperately need housing. How is perpetuating oppression an answer to the grief over George Floyd’s last minutes of life? Surely “take everything” isn’t urging us to strip all hope from those in need.

Haven’t we taken far too much already? 

In spite of my limited perspective from the space of middle-aged whiteness, I do understand that Mr. Floyd’s murder alone did not combust into violence and destruction on May 26. It merely sparked kindling piled sky high from centuries of white supremacy. 

Awful as it is to imagine, it’s possible my ancestors had a hand in taking Africans from their communities, their land, their livelihood. We took everything from them except the one thing we couldn’t touch: their spirit. Now, more than a century after “emancipation,” it’s as if we white folks still hold a grudge against Blacks because they didn’t give us every damn thing they had. 

When the white settlers arrived on the shores of what would become the United States of America, they followed narrow-minded greed into the newly discovered land, lush with resources. The settlers blindly assumed this abundance had been created specifically for them, for the taking. This arrogance continues to this day, with the government once again taking back land it had “given” to indigenous people. This time, it’s from Native Americans in the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation – Oak Flat – for copper mining interests. 

photo of protester in Washington, D.C.
Photo by Steve Pavey

How is that Blacks and Native Americans are still alive? Do overtly racist white people hate them because they refuse to be exterminated? And those of us who don’t think of ourselves as racist – why have we remained silent in the face of oppression?

Take everything

A homeless man in my neighborhood carries all of his possessions in a daypack and two plastic bags. He takes everything he has with him, wherever he goes. Amazingly, Dave seems content. I bring him cold water and food, and we talk for a bit, sharing stories about our lives. As he sits, all day long, patiently waiting for the shelter to open later that night, Dave prays.

Psalm 23 comes to mind: the lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. I’m not blind to the possibility that Dave entered my life as a reminder of how much I want, how often I forget to trust in “enough.”

During the rioting I worried that the condo under construction beside the building in which I live would be an easy target for arson. Large gaping holes not yet filled by windows seemed to invite a molotov cocktail. Laying in bed, in the dark, listening to the thump-thump-thump of national guard helicopters overhead and the wail of sirens in the streets below, I wondered which of my belongings I would grab in my escape from fire. Everything I’ve acquired and placed throughout my living and working space would go up in flames. All of the artwork I’ve created would turn into ash. My sanctuary from the outside world would crumble. Would I be woke enough to echo Ruhel’s words? “Let my home burn, justice needs to be served, dismantle white supremacy, end police brutality and racism so that all may have life, liberty and happiness.”

I’d like to think that I would. If I’m honest, though, I’m not so sure. 

take everything

What am I willing to give up? How much am I willing to let go of? What is the social cost of my own security if people of color aren’t safe in this country? Those are some of the questions I’m pondering. While I’m personally not taking anything from people of color – rather, I focus on giving – I’m unwittingly participating in a social structure that continuously takes, takes, takes. Instead, I need to take something different. I need to take action. I need to take steps toward change. Lasting change.

image showing a wishbone and pottery

One thing I would save from flames in my home is a tiny grouse wishbone, which my beloved Val gave to me in 2014, the year before he died. I haven’t made a wish yet. I’m saving it for just the right time.

It could very well be that the right time is now.

Let’s shift

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Let’s shift

In a matter of days, millions of people around the world changed their behavior. A recent Robcast by Rob and Kristen Bell opened my eyes to this important realization. What the environmental crisis lacked the power to effect, the COVID-19 pandemic achieved in the span of not decades or years, but weeks and days. 

What does this say about us?

Well, it says we are capable of change. As Rob and Kristen pointed out, the paradigm that people don’t or won’t change is now shattered. We can change. We did change. And we changed very rapidly.

Those changes didn’t come lightly. We’ve all had to modify the ways in which we live, some to larger degrees than others. We’ve dealt with inconveniences. We’ve handled difficult transitions. We’ve responded with the full spectrum of emotions, sometimes actually happy to shelter in the comfort of our homes, sometimes overwhelmed by sorrow or fear. None of this has been easy. Yet we did it.

 The fact that we did it so quickly points to another realization. Since we’ve proven that yes, we humans who gravitate toward comfort and pleasure can come together and make significant changes that have an impact on the entire world. In other words, there’s reason for hope.

Here’s hoping…

Day 3: Gut and mind reset

Wendy Uncategorized , 2 Comments
Day 3: Gut and mind reset

On this last day of the monodiet of mung dal and rice, it’s worthwhile to consider, why did I do this? And did I achieve what I’d intended?

First, it’s important to note that eating along mung dal and rice (plus the banana and riced cauliflower I added today) is not about purification. While that may be one of the effects, it’s not the purpose. No, what I’m working on will have a far more universal outcome.

I’m preparing mind, body and soul for a revolution.

North Wind Woman leading march
Photo by Tyler Schank / tschank@duluthnews.com

As I stated in my post for day 2, we have a lot of impossible to make possible in the next decade. This new year, 2020, we need a groundswell of people like you and me to join together and pull the rug out from under the power structure that systematically condones or promotes environmental and social injustice.

Life as we know it is in grave trouble. Here are headlines from today:

  • “Trump Rule Would Exclude Climate Change in Infrastructure Planning” (Translation for Minnesota: Free pass to Enbridge for the Line 3 pipeline)
  • “Millions of Australians Are Choking on Smoke From Wildfires” (This ground zero for climate catastrophe is a sneak preview of our future in the U.S.)

Homelessness is epidemic. More than 10,000 people are homeless on any given day in Minnesota, and last year, at least 100 people died while homeless in Minnesota.

Signs at the homeless memorial 2019

While some of us rely on faith to guide our way, hope is the common driver. In a recent sermon, Jered Weber-Johnson eased my despair when he shared this quote from the gifted writer Rebecca Solnit:

“I say all this because hope is not like a lottery ticket you can sit on the sofa and clutch, feeling lucky. I say it because hope is an ax you break down doors with in an emergency; because hope should shove you out the door, because it will take everything you have to steer the future away from endless war, from the annihilation of the earth’s treasures and the grinding down of the poor and marginal. Hope just means another world might be possible, not promised, not guaranteed. Hope calls for action; action is impossible without hope.”

Rebecca Solnit, Hope in the Dark

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by so much change needed in this world, I highly recommend reading Hope in the Dark. Solnit’s thesis is that radicals have a long, neglected history of transformative victories, that the positive consequences of our acts are not always immediately seen, directly knowable, or even measurable. She gives countless examples of how the acts of an individual (think Greta Thunberg) led to a much larger chain reaction and changes such as the right for women to vote, the end to slavery, environmental protections, gay marriage…the list goes on.

Stop Line 3
Photo credit: MN350.org (https://mn350.org/2019/10/1200-say-stop-line-3-at-gichi-gami-gathering/)

Buff Grace, an environmental activist and Episcopal priest who never fails to inspire me, posed a provocative question recently on Facebook: “What if history was a gambler, instead of a force in a laboratory experiment, and you his ace in the hole?”

I’m going with the assumption we are history’s ace in the hole. There’s too much at stake to underestimate our ability to create significant change. This is no time to sit on the sofa, clutching hope like a lottery ticket. Let’s wield hope like an ax and break down the doors of apathy. Let’s release love and act with compassion for all beings. Let’s be the change we want to see.

Are you in?

Day 2: Gut and mind reset

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Day 2: Gut and mind reset

On this second day of eating only kitchari, 3 x per day, I’m settling in with more ease to this self-inflicted diet. It’s amazing how quickly the human body adjusts to a new norm. This works in our favor when we make healthy choices. Not so well when we don’t. Like attracts like, so when we’re imbalanced, we gravitate toward more of whatever is causing our imbalance.

In other words, we’re all addicts.

doughnut with pink icing

One reason my bowl of kitchari is more appealing today is that I remembered to sprinkle chopped cilantro on top of the mung dal and rice. Flavor really helps to brighten the day. On day 1, I must have been stuck in Puritan mode. I forgot all about the cilantro.

While the cilantro adds zest, my tastebuds are already adjusting, so the flavor of cardamom and ginger pop out more obviously. It turns out that kitchari isn’t so bland at all. 

I’m reminded of camping in a tent. That first night, sleeping on the ground, I toss and turn, searching in vain for the cushy comfort I’m accustomed to in my queen size bed. When the sun rises, I’m relieved to end the ordeal, but then have to contend with feeling tired and beat up. However, the aches dissipate with the joy of being outdoors, breathing clean air, listening to bird song, feeling the sun’s warmth on my face. The following nights I sleep much more soundly. I’ve adjusted to the new norm.

With such resistance to discomfort, it’s a wonder we humans achieve anything worthwhile. And it’s easy to see why we’ve made such a mess of things in this world. Why eat mung dal and rice when we can have tenderloin and tira misu? Why fill a glass with water instead of a hoppy pale ale? Why explore the unknown in our neighborhood when we can go to Bangkok? Why share walls with others when we can live in a five-level home on five acres? (No pointing fingers here – I’ve done all of those things fairly recently.)

When we consistently choose comfort over discomfort, there’s never enough. Something better is always just out of reach.

One of the unexpected rewards of eating simply is the realization that I can actually be happy with far less than I thought. The freedom that comes with simplicity is far more intoxicating than alcohol and longer lasting, with no hang over. It also feels more equal, more democratic. Having many choices may not be freedom but rather tyranny, in the way plenitude distorts our view of reality. The truth is, if all of us lived more simply, there would be plenty of resources for everyone on planet earth.

Albert Einstein

Albert Einstein wore the same clothes every day so he wouldn’t have to decide what to wear. Eating the same food every day means I spend no time or energy deciding what to eat and very little time cooking. Which frees up space to ponder far more interesting things, such as, what keeps us from experiencing prosperity?

The prosperity I’m referring to is not financial in nature, but rather an overall sense of thriving and flourishing. We don’t have to buy an amazing experience that enriches us. It could be as simple as a hug from child we love dearly. 

Akong Rinpoche
Photo by IAN BERRY / MAGNUM PHOTOS

Paradoxically, on this second day of eating only mung dal and basmati rice, I’m feeling prosperous. The subtle flavors coming alive in my mouth open me to other subtleties, such as a refined connection to my soul. In this utter simplicity I feel vibrant. In this illuminated state anything seems possible. And, in the words of the Tibetan Buddhist Akong Rinpoche, “Only the impossible is worth doing.” There’s a lot of impossible to do in 2020.

I’ll write more about that on day 3.

Day 1: Gut and mind reset

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The monodiet I started today is doing far more than resetting my digestive system. It’s also messing with my mindset.

figure-praying-mung-dal

A monodiet of kitchari– a combination of mung dal, white basmati rice, and spices – is an easily digestible food that helps to bring the digestive system back into balance. For the mind, however, it’s quite difficult to digest. At least it has been for me, both this time and the reset I did two months ago.

Ktichari on a dish

You might think that day 2 is more difficult than day 1, and day 3 more difficult than both combined. Each day presents its own challenges, in its own way. Which is what shifts this experience into spiritual practice: it invites an increased awareness as well as an objectivity in noticing the turmoil, then letting it go, and in the process, inching ever closer to one’s true self. Over and over and over again.

Day 1 is all about cravings. My culinary options are drastically limited, which is a significant departure from my middle class norm. When I’m hungry, I typically have the wherewithal to consider what, exactly, would taste good, and then pull it from the cupboard or refrigerator. On day 1 of the monodiet, I’m spending a considerable amount of time thinking about what I can’t eat and how dissatisfied I am with the mung dal and rice. Even with the spices, it’s fairly bland, compared to my usual flavorful diet.

It doesn’t take long to recognize how privileged I am. This monodiet is a choice I’ve made. I’m not in a refugee camp or a homeless shelter. I’m not living on the streets, grazing for food that’s been discarded by someone else as garbage. I don’t subsist on my own grown food, in an area where drought or flooding has ruined my crops. No, I live in the land of plenty, although plenty is available only for the privileged.

homeless person holding a sign asking for help
Photo by A McLin (https://www.flickr.com/photos/37486024@N03/4431449020/)

For some reason, my body responds poorly to gluten and cow dairy, which I’m usually successful in avoiding. Thanksgiving and Christmas upended my regimen – hence the need for a reset. I wonder how people who are homeless cope with food sensitivities or allergies – assuming they have them. Maybe a life of privilege predisposes us to reacting oddly to food; the inability to digest our own inauthentic thoughts may be the root cause. At any rate, those of us who don’t have access to a kitchen can’t be too picky about the food that miraculously comes our way. I recall the look of disgust on the face of a woman who had once been a vegetarian, but in the troubled circumstances of her life at that time, ate the ham sandwich offered to her at a community meal.

I’ll take the kitchari over a ham sandwich, easy peasy. But I’m working on letting go of my attachment to a banana. And negotiating whether or not it would be acceptable to add the banana to my monodiet on day 3. Just the banana! Not the dark chocolate or the granola bars or the….

Jesus Is a Hobo

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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.

Radical Connectivity

Wendy Uncategorized 0 Comment
Radical Connectivity

At some churches, the Sunday service omits scripture and hardly mentions God. Yet God is most certainly there, in the hearts of those taking in a consistent message of love, feeling hardness give way to greater generosity, opening to a universal message: love as much as you can, as often as you can, with as many people as you can, for the rest of your life.

I’m reminded of a service I attended a few years ago at a Unitarian Universalist church. I’d known about UU from my formation as a spiritual director, through some of my classmates, and I was curious, but not enough to go to one of their services. What brought me to a UU service that day was music – specifically, a piece called Spiritus Sanctus, written by Ruth MacKenzie, that explores the intersection between Hindu and Christian mystics. A co-worker, who is in the choir, told me about the piece, saying the entire choir was transported by the music during the rehearsal. I wanted to be transported, too.

As it turns out, the entire service, not just the music, took me to a different place that felt oddly familiar. From the beginning, when the senior minister affirmed who the church was (people who are united in spirit and accepting of differences), I felt very much at home. The ministers used language I might have, had I been at the podium.

And the music? Spectacular. My only disappointment was that there wasn’t more of it. Two worlds merged – a Western voice represented by Hildegard of Bingen‘s text and Ruth MacKenzie’s music, and a Hindu voice represented by Nirmala Rajeskar, a world-renowned veena artist and vocalist.

painting of Hildegard of Bingen
Hildegard of Bingen

Nirmala Rajasekar, vocalist and veena artist
Nirmala Rajasekar

In the program Spiritus Sanctus was described as exploring “the common experience of radical connectivity shared by mystics around the world.” The love and the longing in that piece transcended human constructs – geography, religion, language – and allowed each of us in the church to see through the eyes of mystics.

Through these eyes I’m thinking about church as more than a building, and more even than the community of people who frequent it. I have referred to the Episcopal church as “my” church, but from the perspective of radical connectivity, “my” church is wherever I go. Perhaps the reason I felt so much at home in a church I was visiting for the first time is that I brought my church with me. Wherever I am is my place of worship. I need nothing but love to feel connected with others, for all of my days here on earth.

painting of earth by Hildegard of Bingen
Vision of the Earth, by Hildegard of Bingen