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Giving back – Boston Street Retreat 2023

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mala for the 2023 Street Retreat in Boston

One of the requirements of the street retreat was to raise funds to be distributed to community-based social service organizations and public nonprofits that serve people experiencing homelessness, plus social action work that Bread Loaf Mountain Zen Community (BLMZC) does. Every participant was asked to raise $500 in donations. This exercise in asking for money would be a warm-up for begging on the streets in Boston. For each donation I received, I added a prayer bead to my mala bracelet, with each bead representing a person sponsoring my practice. I wore the bracelet or carried it in my pocket for the entire street retreat and thought of my sponsors as I fingered each bead.

As a result of their generosity, the sponsors of my mala contributed $900. I’m deeply grateful for this support.

Collectively, the participants of the Boston Street Retreat raised $4,552. (Included in that amount is the balance of the $20 I received while begging on the streets of Cambridge less the bottle of kombucha I bought to use a bathroom and which I shared with Mike and Peter during a begging break and less the $5 we gave to a stranger begging down the block from us.) One third of that amount would go to Gather and other BLMZC social action projects. That left $3035 for us to distribute to other organizations.

Friday Cafe at First Church in Cambridge, MA
Friday Cafe at First Church in Cambridge, Massachusetts

Those of us who participated in the Boston Street Retreat, except for Helena, who wasn’t able to join us, met in mid-November via zoom. Though it had been almost 3 months since we’d seen or spoken to one another, time collapsed as I saw their faces and heard their voices again. We’d been together for only four days, but those were intensely vulnerable days and the bond that we formed is surprisingly strong. My heart leapt with joy as I listened to my friends share their reflections on the retreat and life afterwards.

Here is how we distributed the $3035:

  • Outdoor Church: A church for homeless and street-involved men and women in Cambridge, Outdoor Church offers several ministries. Our Street Retreat group joined them on Saturday to handout sandwiches, juice boxes, snacks, socks, and toiletry kits from carts as we walked the streets of Cambridge. On Sunday, our last day, we attended an outdoor service at a public square, led by an Outdoor Church minister. Together with all who gathered, we sang and prayed, a motley choir raising our voices to an unconditionally loving God.
  • Peace House: With skies dropping heavy rain in the middle of our Street Retreat, we were fortunate to receive an invitation from Peace House to sleep in the monastery, sheltered from the rain. We did not immediately accept the invitation. Each member of the group offered their perspective. Some felt that staying overnight in a monastery defied the intent of the Street Retreat. Others were concerned with getting soaking wet, cold and potentially ill. Ultimately we all agreed to accept the invitation, knowing that we would be sleeping on a hard floor and considering that if someone living on the streets were invited to take shelter at Peace House, they would likely accept. As I had the night before, I laid out cardboard on the hardwood floor and slept fitfully, shifting often in an effort to find a semblance of comfort. The next morning we left after zazen and Council, into the rain, taking shelter at the Cambridge library. With the rain continuing into the evening, we spent a second night at Peace House, where we again felt welcomed by kindness and generosity. 
  • St. Francis House: Located in the heart of Boston, this day shelter is the largest in Massachusetts, welcoming up to 600 individuals experiencing homelessness each day. After waking to the sound of a fire alarm in a nearby building, we rolled up our blankets and silently walked on our first morning in Boston to a park and then to St. Francis House. Just past dawn a long line of people snaked from the entrance of St. Francis House. Over the four days of the Street Retreat I learned that waiting is a significant component of receiving services. An hour later a burly Black man ushered us into the building where we waited in another line to get a St. Francis House I.D. that was required to receive services. The system was glitching. When it was finally my turn at the window, a flustered Black woman asked me where I’d slept that night. When I answered, her eyes widened and she said, “I’m getting you a social worker.” My eyes widened. I said I didn’t need one, that I was with a group of friends. My new I.D. allowed me to enter the dining area where I could go through the buffet line as many times as I wanted. One hard-boiled egg at a time. I sat with my tray of food and hot coffee at a table across from a young man who exuberantly ate a total of 8 hard-boiled eggs and left his applesauce untouched.   
  • Salvation Army in Cambridge: After breakfast at St. Francis House we walked across the river to the Salvation Army in Cambridge. Volunteers at the kitchen window offered the fixings for sandwiches, chips and fruit. As a vegetarian, I opted for a cheese sandwich. The woman, about my age, urged her middle-aged male companion to give me extra cheese. Though my stomach was still full from breakfast, I gratefully accepted the food generously offered, not knowing when I would eat again. I sat at a table across from two women in their 70s. Millie, with long grey ponytails, shared how she had been homeless for a year after her house was quarantined as a result of a resident’s hoarding. The other woman also had housing. It seemed they came regularly to the Salvation Army mainly for companionship and kindness.
  • Generic Ministry: Charmed by and appreciative of the services offered by this group on our first night of the Street Retreat, we decided to distribute an equal portion of the funding to Generic Ministry.
  • Christ Church in Cambridge: Seated at round table-clothed tables, we were served a plated meal. Much to my delight they offered a vegetarian option. Here I met Rachel, a highly intelligent middle-aged woman who writes regularly about human rights for women dealing with violence. She pushed a cart filled with belongings. When I asked if she was staying in a shelter, Rachel explained that her stalker would find her there, so she lives on the streets of Cambridge.
  • First Church in Cambridge: This UCC church offers a Friday Cafe luncheon which was delicious and served by a host of friendly volunteers. We sat at round tables in a brightly lit parish hall. Millie arrived shortly after our group sat down, as did Rachel. My heart was glad to see familiar faces and have the opportunity to get to know these individuals better. 
  • First Korean Church In Cambridge: We were given a card with a number and ushered into large parish room with many long rows of tables and, perpendicular to those, a long row of tables on which were piled package food. Millie spotted me as I looked for a place to seat, motioned for me to sit beside her. The room was loud, people were impatient, while a pastor led us in prayer and then invited those seated in the first row to go to the buffet line. I followed Millie, who insisted I stand in front of her in the line. So much food! Many vegetarian options. 
  • The Independent Newspaper: In support of Rachel and her work, we donated $300 to her newspaper.

Rough sleeping: Boston Street Retreat 2023

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cover of "Rough Sleepers," a book by Tracy Kidder

Why did I choose the Street Retreat in Boston, instead of Los Angeles, New York or San Francisco? One reason is the weather. I prefer heat over cold, and August in Boston matches my constitution better than Los Angeles in April or December in San Francisco. My decision to go to Boston was also influenced by Rough Sleepers, a book written by Tracy Kidder about a doctor named Jim O’Connell who has devoted his career to healing the homeless, particularly in Boston. It’s a fascinating, illuminating, heartbreaking and hopeful story.

A summary from Tracy’s website is as follows:

Nearly forty years ago, after Jim O’Connell graduated from Harvard Medical School and was nearing the end of his residency at Massachusetts General Hospital, the Chief of Medicine made a proposal: would Jim defer a prestigious fellowship and spend a year as a doctor to homeless citizens? Jim took the job because he felt he couldn’t refuse. But that year turned into his life’s calling—to serve the city’s unhoused population, especially the ‘rough sleepers,’ people who sleep on the streets, in the rough.

Dr. O’Connell’s initiation into caring for homeless individuals did not involve diagnosing or prescribing. He built rapport with them by washing their feet. And then, as they gradually began to trust him and share their stories, he listened. As a spiritual director, I resonate deeply with his approach. To be truly heard is to be seen and appreciated for exactly who we are, no strings attached. We discover that although we make choices that in retrospect seem wrong, there is nothing inherently wrong with us. And that is a path to healing.

The prospect of crossing paths with this inspiring man and witnessing the infrastructure in place as a result of his efforts drew me to Boston.

And now, for the first time in my life, I’m getting a glimpse into the lifestyle of a rough sleeper. Our first night of sleeping on the streets, out in the open, bathed in city lights and city sounds, is definitely rough.

We ask a sturdy, bearded man pushing a shopping cart where on the street is a good place to sleep. He says all around the central library, which is where we are, having finished our ad hoc meal. A few of us scope out another side of the library. It’s quieter, much more peaceful than Boylston Street. However, just as we begin to claim a space large enough for the eight of us, an elderly couple arrives. “This is our space,” the man says firmly. Our credo is to not take anyone’s space, whether inside a shelter or on the street. We cede the territory and return to the front of the library and arrange cardboard and blankets in the space along the large library windows.

Laying on my back, a floppy hat over my face to block some of the light, I wonder how in the world I’ll be able to fall asleep. Clusters of people between us and the street laugh and bellow. It’s a party we’re probably crashing. One group putters with a banged up moped, trying to get it started. A noxious odor finds its way to me: spilled gasoline? The engine starts with a roar and after a long 30 seconds the moped leaves, stuttering. Meanwhile another group is doing and dealing drugs. One of the individuals enters our space and speaks to Joshin: “Is this some kind of social experiment?” He’s satisfied with Joshin’s answer for a bit, then returns for more. I witness this through grommet holes in my hat.

I close my eyes and consider the strong possibility that sleep will not come easily tonight.

At one point the tenor of the party shifts. Voices sound tense, angry. I pull off my hat and see four men intertwined, pushing and shoving, coming perilously close to our lineup of bodies prone on the sidewalk. A drug deal gone bad. Joshin motions to get up. I nudge the other Wendy who is laying beside me, tell her we have to go. NOW. Each of us quickly gathers our belongings as the men continue to yell and shove. “Leave the cardboard!” Joshin says. Then only Peter is left in the space, slowly gathering up his belongings, and Joshin urges him to hurry. One of the angry men walks up to Peter and gets in his face. Another man interferes, for some reason protecting Peter, a gentle neurologist nearing retirement.

With no time to stuff our blankets and belongings into bags or backpacks, we gather them loosely in our arms and walk across the street and down the block to an area that’s quieter, more residential. A small plaza in front of a yoga studio looks inviting. John, a muscular Canadian and veteran of Street Retreats, and the other Wendy and I scout the alley for cardboard. It’s easy to find in the city. Sometimes there are stacks of flattened boxes placed in the alley, presumably for the recycler. When we return with our found padding, the group organically positions cardboard and bedding in an L shape along a brick wall and the storefront. Then we settle in, hoping for sleep.

While on my back, the paper padding beneath me seems relatively comfortable. The problem is that I’m unable to fall asleep on my back. My body relaxes enough for sleep only I’ve arranged myself in a fetal position. I roll over, facing the bulk of John who is laying less than two feet from me. To my left is the corner of the L. Sandwiched among my companions I’m reminded of the peacefulness and joy of my youth during slumber parties – waking in the middle of the night, hearing light snores rise from still mounds arranged haphazardly across the living room floor. At this moment, sleeping on a street in downtown Boston, I feel connected to my companions. To the earth. And to God. I am not alone.

I’m awakened by two voices yelling at each other. A female and a male, volleying complaints back and forth. The only words I can distinguish are f*** and f***in’, which seem to be major building blocks in the woman’s vocabulary. I’m amused by a thick Boston accent. The heated argument continues for many minutes, then suddenly ends as if doused. I roll over, giving the right side of my body a break from the crush against concrete. There’s not enough padding in my body to cushion my hip bone or shoulder. I see that Helena, a young woman from Canada, is sitting up. She motions to me in a sign language I somehow understand as “I need to pee.” Our group’s pact is that no one leaves the group alone. We return to the alley where I’d scrounged for cardboard. First she pees behind a large dumpster. Then I take a turn – might as well, as long as I’m here. A car pulls into the alley just as I begin to stream urine. Although I’m hidden, I feel a sense of urgency, not from my bladder but from my mind as it imagines the worst. The car slowly rolls past Helena and me as we return to our street beds.

Somehow I fall back asleep in the relative silence that has returned to the neighborhood until around 5:30, I’m guessing, since I have no watch piece. A predawn light softens the night sky and there is more traffic on the streets as the city wakes from its slumber. A fire alarm punctuates the drone of cars with a steady, pulsing blare. The bodies around me stir. One by one we rise, then fold and stuff bedding into backpacks. Although my hips and shoulders feel a little sore, the rest of my body seems surprisingly refreshed. A few of us gather the cardboard and tote it to a recycling bin in the alley. No sign of our presence remains as we walk silently, as a group, toward Saint Francis House, where we anticipate coffee and breakfast. The blare of the fire alarm gradually fades. Day 2 of the street retreat has begun.

Boston Street Retreat: Juice & Generic Ministry

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Generic Ministry van in Boston

The one line I remember from Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire” is when Blanche says, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” From my perspective, relying on a stranger, or on anyone, for that matter, seemed impossible, even dangerous. I was raised to be self-sufficient. And to believe in self-sufficiency.

Now, in my sixth decade of fending for myself very well thank you, I’m living on the streets of Boston without money or a credit card. I’ll need to rely on the kindness of strangers. Granted, I’m here of my own accord; I chose to participate in the Street Retreat. Still, this vulnerability is a shock to my system. For several years I’ve practiced surrendering to the best of my ability, my grip loosening only slightly. Now, as if on a dare, I’m stretching out an open hand, wondering what will happen.

On this first evening of living on the streets, the church we’d understood to be serving free meals remains dark with locked doors. Peter, one of my companions on the retreat, enters a restaurant to ask for food. He rejoins us, empty-handed. I find myself following him into the next restaurant. No luck at that one, nor at the third. At a take-out Mexican restaurant I explain to the young man at the counter that we are living on the streets and wondering if he has extra food to offer. He turns to the woman standing next to him – likely his madre – and after speaking to each other in low voices in Spanish, he says, sorry, no. They do usually help, but later in the evening, after the dinner hour. I thank them and we walk back onto the street, wondering if we’ll have to skip dinner. A voice calls out from behind us, and we turn to see the young man from the Mexican restaurant. “Do you like watermelon juice?” Although the temperature is in the 70s, the air is thick with humidity. Oh yes, we would LOVE watermelon juice! Peter and I follow him into the restaurant. He pulls two tall cups of juice from the refrigerator, stirs the juice and hands us the cups with a smile. Muchas gracias. Adhering to the agreement that anything we receive as an individual will be shared with the group, Peter and I with no little excitement deliver the watermelon juice to the group. We all take turns sipping, the cups quickly emptying.

Entering a restaurant and asking for free food instead of a table is definitely awkward. And, depending on the response, also humiliating. On this first evening of the retreat my clothes are still clean. I look very much like a patron. The friendly expectancy on the face of the greeter instantly shifts to an expression of confusion, concern and sometimes irritation. Our mistake of asking for food during the busy dinner hour becomes obvious. Still, I feel grateful for the experience of asking and feeling no anger or judgment toward those who denied me. I’ve lost nothing by asking. However, if I hadn’t eaten in several days, would I be as quick to smile and say, “Thanks anyway”?

As I stand on the corner at a busy intersection with my seven companions, wondering about next steps, a young woman with a bright smile recognizes Bushin, our co-facilitator who is enrolled at Harvard Divinity School. They share hugs and happily chatter. When she learns about our retreat and our predicament, the woman extracts $50 from a nearby ATM and hands the money to Bushin. As a group, we decide that Trader Joe’s would be the most affordable venue. We roam the aisles, searching for food that would provide the most nutrition for the least amount of money, While Mike, a professor on sabbatical from Colorado State, stands in the checkout line with a filled basket, the other Wendy (a physician) and I search for utensils. Trader Joe’s is out of knives. We’ll have to use a plastic spoon to spread the peanut butter. I’m reminded of the adjustments made on camping trips and comforted by the familiarity of this workaround.

Photo by Bruce T. Martin

On the sidewalk in front of the contemporary addition to Boston Central Library, we sit in a circle and spread out our food in the center: gorp of two kinds, peanut butter, Ezekiel bread, apples, hummus, a bag of sweet peppers. Wendy uses the spoon to slather peanut butter on slices of bread for us. As we share a meal that feels even more like a gift than usual, a white van with the words “Generic Ministry” pulls up to the curb. Within minutes a line of people forms at the back of the van, its doors open, the lights from within shining into the darkness of the night. I have no timepiece. It’s been dark for at least an hour. Bright lights from the library beam down on us – the urban version of picnicking under the light of a full moon.

My belly full, I’m feeling no want aside from a toothbrush. One of my concerns about the Street Retreat is the fur that will thicken on my teeth over the course of four days of not brushing my teeth. When the last person in line at the Generic Ministry van walks away with a plastic bag stuffed with clothing and supplies, I approach the van. A lumpy-faced middle-aged man greets me with a huge smile. I ask if they have toothbrushes and toothpaste. Yes! He apologizes, says he didn’t realize we were living on the streets, and invites me to the back of the van where another volunteer can help me. Along the left wall of the van are shelves of clothing, and along the right wall are small bins containing items that might be helpful for people living on the streets. But no floss. A thin, wiry woman, who appears to be my age and is adept at maneuvering in the cramped space, hands me a toothbrush and a small tube of Crest and asks me what else I need. Turkey sandwich? No, thanks, I’m vegetarian. I settle for packets of moist towelettes.

My needs today were met, thanks to the kindness of strangers. The generosity I’ve experienced gently corrects the false narrative of self-sufficiency. The truth is that I’ve lived a comfortable life, always sheltered and never hungry, because of the generosity of others and the privileges that come with being White, intelligent and middle-class. I was born with a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’ve made foolish, even dangerous choices that caused great suffering to myself and others. Without the safety net I was born into, I could easily have ended up living on the streets. Maybe this Street Retreat is an invitation into deeper gratitude for all of the generosity that’s come my way, especially the generosity I didn’t appreciate at the time.