A Bag of Rags

        Many years ago, I had a conversation with a man who often found himself homeless due mostly to severe addiction. He said the very worst times were during the winter. Being on the streets of a New England city at that time of year was almost unbearable. He would feel the biting cold to be sure, but would also feel as if he was invisible to everyone. It was one thing to sense the pain of judgmental stares, but aversion could sting even more. It seems few can bear to view such suffering as they walk along the city streets.

        He said he’d sometimes dream about trying to make his way to the southern states, but never did. His addiction kept him planted. “Besides,” he told me, “I don’t know how to be homeless down there. I only know how to be homeless here.”

                                                                                                        *****

        Not long after the new year, my sweetheart Dianne and I were in the mood for some live jazz music, and found out about a late Saturday afternoon jam at a café in a nearby city. The day was cold and blustery, a bit gray with the coming dusk; the kind of day that makes one crave warmth and comfort. The harsh wind whistled as it moved between the buildings, and though we parked only a block away, the walk felt much too long. We found a table in the back corner of the place, and settled in for a carefree few hours of well-played music. The small café filled quickly with a chill, mostly upper middle-aged crowd.

         After an hour or so, a younger man came in carrying a large gym bag, and was dressed in loose-fitting clothes that seemed too light for the weather. The way he carried his bag suggested it had both some weight and importance. He moved cautiously through the crowd, being careful not to bump into or look directly at anyone, but scanned the room and spotted us rather quickly. We must have seemed safe, and he came right over, politely asking if it would be okay to leave his bag near our table, that he “needed to go pee.” We responded to him by smiling and nodding, and he left the bag on the floor nearby. We both looked at the bag, gaping open and stuffed with what was likely all of his clothing and possessions. Then we looked at each other.

           A short time later he emerged from the restroom, passed us by, and began circulating through the café, attempting to blend in despite the futility of it. He did not seem to be under the influence of any particular substance, but something in his eyes suggested a troubled mind. A well-dressed woman came by on her way from the ladies’ room, almost tripped over the bag, and asked us if we were “camping.” Dianne assured her we were not and pointed to its owner, telling her he’d trusted us with it. The woman smiled sympathetically, shook her head, and patted Dianne on the shoulder as she made her way back to her table.

            We watched as he bumbled about, socially out of his depth, and seemingly unable to directly read the cues of those around him ̶ ̶ their judgment and distaste, their fear and uncertainty about him, yet I wondered if he could sense it. All we could see was a lost and likely harmless soul looking to be warm for a while, just to be warm and out of the wind. Just for a while. But we knew it was coming. About half an hour passed before an employee asked him to leave...she seemed to know of him, and when he balked, a patron stepped in to assist her. Nothing heavy handed of course, but it was clearly time for his warmth to end. On his way to the door, he quickly scooped up his bag and without looking toward us was gone.

          We looked at each other once again, for the watching pain had surely returned to us both even if only for some moments as we witnessed our lost, cold friend being all too briefly warmed. We somehow deeply knew him. Most deeply. Had maybe even known him before.

            Both of our sons, both now gone, had at different points in their lives been homeless on these very same streets. Compassion, that ability to feel as the other, comes easily at such times. And compassion breaks the space between us all and brings us closer, closer, and closer still. To the soul. To where the truth of us lives. As for me, I feel nearer to that young man even some days later, and I think that means something. But the real trick is to bring empathy to everyone we meet, not just to those who stir recollection, because everyone we meet is suffering in some very real ways. Ways we cannot even imagine.

         “Jeez,” Dianne said, “I just wanted to give him some money and get him something to eat even though...well, you know.”

         “I do know,” I replied. “But sometimes all we can do is be kind and regard the other as ourselves just like we did with him. And sometimes that has to be enough.”

         His path through this life is his own, but ours crossing reminded me that all paths eventually do merge.
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           For that gift I’m grateful. Forward.