She Who Refuses to Hear the Cries of the World

Waiting for nothing (Max, Germany)
Originally uploaded by Tous les noms sont déjà pris... pfff....

Four hours ago, the skin on my hands was numb and prickly from the freezing rain blowing through northwest Portland. On my way home along NW 23rd, I saw something lying on the sidewalk. It was hardly recognizable as human. A head was wedged in the niche of a storefront, and part of a torso protruded. The torso wore a lightweight shirt. In the bitter cold.

“That's stupid,” I thought. “They must be high.”

The only other person on the street was an older man selling the homeless newspaper. All alone in the darkness.

“Sorry,“ I said.

”Sorry,“ he echoed back. Why he was standing there in the cold, with no one around? Why not go somewhere more comfortable? Or go stand in front of Trader Joe’s. Whatever.

I struggled home to and wrestled with the dial on the radiator. It was way too warm. Then I ate some food and called my mom.

I take the bedding out of the chest and laid the pad and blankets on the floor. I crawled into my nest and looked at the Dharma book I’ve been reading.

There is the teaching that all beings have been our mother in a previous life.

I can’t sleep. If that body on the sidewalk had belonged to an animal, I would have helped. I always rescue earthworms from puddles when it rains. And yet I think it’s OK for that person to lie there in the bitter cold?

And the man with the newspaper--standing there, fruitless selling newspapers, on a deserted street—he was desperately trying to make enough money to buy a room for the night, or comfort in some form.

“What would be helpful to you?” I imagine myself asking. In a melodious voice. Before I place a blanket over the body on the cement bed. In this fantasy, I am compassionate and kind. This is the fantasy of someone who, four hours ago, ignored a human being literally begging for help.

I turn over. I have so many blankets. Other people do not. Something is wrong. It is wrong that I have blankets and people passed out on the freezing sidewalk do not have blankets.

There is something even worse, though. It is easier to be an asshole than to be kind.

I get out of bed and take an army blanket from the cedar chest. I walk into the night—warmer now—and up the street. Both people are gone. The niche with the sleeping body could barely fit a cat.

I know I can’t solve my stupidity this way. Is this better than nothing? Is this better than saying mantras for them? I don’t know.

Two men with good haircuts come up the street, carrying takeout containers. You can hear the alcohol in their voices.

”Confusion isn’t a feeling,” one blusters. “It’s a vague sensation.”

I have a vague sensation, all right. That begging requires either a special disposition, or else a special desperation. Asking strangers for help is hard, and hearing the way we dismiss that request must be harder. “Not today.” “Sorry.”

There is the assumption that these people can get help somewhere. And that money will just go to buy drugs or alcohol. But who’s to say that getting loaded isn’t a reasonable strategy for a cold night? Is withholding cash going to turn this person’s life around? I don’t know. If panhandling were fun and easy, it would be a lot more popular.

To you who are reading this—you who have been my mother—I have been terrible. What can I do? What can I give to the person who is now gone?

And what will I do next time.