Sometimes the days are wonderful

Sometimes I wonder how long I could sit down and pay attention to nothing. I am completely absolved to the things around me, relentlessly stopping my mind, and shunning my vision. To mediate, and find nothingness; the quiet we all seek and yearn for, lost and found throughout the ages.

What brought this on you ask? I walked home Friday morning, after heading out with friends for St. Patrick’s Day. I walked for about an hour, five o'clock in the morning, from the Gorge to my home off of Fort Street.

The sky was starting to shift from night to day along the way. The birds have started to sing, and I hear tunes around me. They communicate so freely without regard of the predators that are ready to swoop down on them. The city protects them; they are less concerned about being hunted. All their instincts have adapted, and now they are more resourceful and cunning. Slowly, the one bird chirping turns into two, than more. They are basking in the morning silence, where traffic and people haven't had the chance to destroy their songs.

I see the homeless people - who are deemed invisible for some - waking, already conscious, and taking in their cold suffering. I can do nothing but harden my soul this early in the morning, the realizations and concrete visual stimuli of their lives was far too much.

One lady in particular is wrapped in sweaters and a make shift home on one of the corners along the way. She is serene and almost dead-like, wrapped in an orange sleeping bag that is completely engulfing her body. She is wrapped so tightly that I even wonder if air could get through that barrier. I pass by smelling the stench of urine, and the tangles of debris littered throughout the streets. I wonder what happened to her. How did she come to live such a life? Most happen upon this life because of their upbringings. It's too sad to even think of.

As I approach the Mac's store which is open all night long on Douglas, I see the normal group of homeless. One girl, barely out of her teens is fully clad like a street hooker. She is surrounded by a group of guys - some native, some white, all working the streets looking for their next victim. Another kid, on an old BMX bike, meant for a child, is short in stature and has the face of a defeated life. She can do nothing but gawk at me, and wonder the same things in return. The sight of seeing a man, dressed in green, with his girlfriend’s highly effeminate green scarf, wrapped tightly around him...who is this man walking so early in the morning? I am one of them; I know I am someone who they can’t relate to; nothing to them but spare change and fear.

I get the normal offers to buy marijuana and other fixes. Politely declining I continue my trek. The birds are chirping in full force, and as I look to the skies to see them, I notice the sun starting to make its progress. There is a limited array of clouds, and they are sparsely seeded in this vast puzzle. The purplish and lightly colored horizon is pure bliss; my soul can only be moved when I look upon it.

It all seems so different when you're walking utterly alone in silence; no traffic, no noise. My eyes scan the sky looking for something familiar; grasping to find this one thing that I know is out there somewhere, to find a familiar pattern in this maze of complexity. This in itself had far more meaningful that anything else I encounter on this day.

My pace has picked up. It's as if my legs are on fire, I can feel no pain, the cold has stricken me, and I can only wonder how the homeless feel. Ahead, another street kid walking with a gait, and dressed in white; pant and coat together white. His face his pocked and he is no doubt a Meth user even though if you asked him he would tell me he has skin problems. There are headphones on his head, over-sized and blaring with some foreign music. He spots me.

"Dude, wanna rob a liquor store with me?” and I am shocked. Am I to be confused with one of them? Is my attire "homeless drag", am I not accomplishing the remedial task of dressing and conforming to this society I live in? Am I failing? "No thanks man, take care of yourself ok", eying him, searching for something more.

I want to glimpse into their souls. It will be beautiful in its own right, but sad. I can't fix things that are broken, and to try is only to remind myself more and more of their suffering. And I am reminded of the things that have condemned them to this life. I am reminded of the ones I have known on a personal level. The ones who tell me how rough it was, how much they suffered, yet don't we all? What is the breaking point really that would send you spiraling towards hell - and I can assure you, this is a worldly hell.

I too have had my problems, and I know many others, yet we have dealt with it differently. I push the other way, I push to be able to live and survive, and shed my insecurities and hurts. I pushed. I only wish they could push as hard but it's too late.

The final hill was great. I climbed it, knowing full well, the top of the hill waits. My friends stunning home is to the left of me, it's an old three story Victorian home, and his lights are on. I'm assuming he went home and passed out without regard to turning off his lights.

To be wasteful is bliss, and really in our self-centered worlds - one person doesn't make a difference. One person can turn on every light in his home, start up the stove, play the radio, watch television at the same time, and turn up the heat; only to shrug it off and not acknowledge the environmental damage he is doing. Hell in a hand basket my friends. We're not changing. I thought we were... I thought that we were on the brink of an irreversible global warming, but I don't see anyone doing anything about it.

I will be home, warm again; surrounded by the things I know. I have a home. I have something to come home to, and feel at peace. They don't! They probably never will, and all we can do is turn a blind eye, and hope we never make a formidable connection to them. Never to make a human connection for fear of approaching emotions like guilt, sorrow, and loss. I even fear it, but I'm not that cold.

Make the effort to say hello. Listen to their delusional rants. Make the effort to at least care enough to treat them like the children of God. For they are no different that you and I, just a little more lost, a little more defeated. Need I remind you that you are defeat also; you have just handled it better. I always make an effort to bless them and wish them a good life, or hand out extra change or food, and the response I get is wonderful. They are happy to be acknowledged; they are almost tearful with happiness, and so am I.

When I get home, I do nothing but forget about it all, until it's time to bed, and the thoughts stagger into my mind. The events of the week come back to be, and I adjust, and examine, and am happy doing so. The days are never bad, just insightful; wonderfully spiritual sometimes.

Sometimes the days are wonderful.