A Post-Valentine’s Day Meditation on Love

Love is imperfect.
It can sometimes be impatient, disappointed, and frustrated.
It may be dissatisfied—want more.
Too often it puts its own needs first,
And fails to see the needs of the beloved.

Love goes on trying, though.
It stays in the mess—
Believes things will change,
Or that it will change.
It recognizes its own suffering,
And so, realizes the beloved is suffering too.

Love does the best it can and 
Accepts with gratitude
The best the beloved has to offer,
Even when that best doesn’t satisfy the 
Mysterious longing inside.
It knows the longing is impossible to fill.

Love doesn’t dwell on desiring more.
It dwells on gratitude for what is.
It sees its own imperfection,
As well as that of the beloved,
And it feels compassion and
Tenderness for both.

Love doesn’t give up.
It doesn’t pretend to know
What the future holds,
Or how it will feel tomorrow.
It focuses on now,
Is self-aware,
Open, and vulnerable.

Love accepts whatever comes,
Holds it lightly,
And lets it go when time moves on.
It sees the good and praises;
Sees the flaws, 
And keeps silent.

Love often fails to understand.
Still, it keeps on seeking.
It accepts that it may never comprehend—
There's so much it can never know.

Love disappoints its noble
Acknowledges its limitations,
But forgives itself,
And begins anew.

Love fails,
Over and over 
And over again,
But Love
Never ends.

Noticing Respect in 2022

“Is treating someone respectfully fundamentally different from respecting him, her, or it?”

I posed this question in my first blog post in 2022, and I return to it in my last. (Though technically, it’s 2023 already, today is New Year’s Day Observed on the iPhone calendar.)

In the last year, I have reflected on, written about, and invited your comments on various instances of respect—situations I have encountered in daily life that have caused me to examine the meaning of respect more closely. For example, I wrote about respecting others through an open, honest, invitational style of communication embraced by Maine’s CDC Director, Dr. Nirav Shah, as he interacted with the people of our state during the height of the COVID pandemic.

I shared the “Just Like Me” practice of recognizing that everyone, even those whose ideas and actions are sometimes antithetical to our own, has many of the same human attributes, desires, hopes, fears, sorrows, and losses as we do. This practice encourages points of identification to generate empathy and nurture even the tiniest grain of respect. In “Respect Amid Conflict,” I wrote about two principles crucial to navigating conflict respectfully: understanding oneself and seeking to understand the other, ferreting out one’s deepest motivations and underlying assumptions, and keeping an open heart and mind about the experience and perspective of the other.

In “Respect in Extremis,” I reflected on respecting the essence of a human being when accomplishments, attractiveness, and self-control are stripped away at the end of life. In the article titled “What Is,” I illustrated the habit of noticing and accepting the ordinary miracle of each moment, welcoming and flowing with it instead of resisting and wishing things were different. In “Two Tales About Respect,” I explored how experiencing disrespect from another may tap into our lack of self-respect. I also exemplified how inner doubt and confusion about the right thing to do in a situation can cause one to act disrespectfully toward others.

The three posts about my friends Jack and Vicky dealt in depth with their experience of years of homelessness, followed by a brief period of stable housing, Vicky’s severe illness, and ultimately their deaths within two weeks of each other. The articles, telling the story of our friendship, were my memorial gift to honor them. Their backgrounds and life experience and mine were dramatically different, yet we came to understand, respect, and love one another.   And finally, “Respecting Limitations and Letting Go.” Recognizing and accepting our limitations and those of others is a lesson we must all learn as we grow older. Learning to let go when the time is right will prepare us for the end of life when we must ultimately let go of everything.

So, back to the original question: “Is treating someone respectfully fundamentally different from respecting him, her, or it?” I’m currently living in a divisive atmosphere. There are many perspectives on the problem we share, but for clarity, I think I can safely say that two slightly porous camps have emerged. Each wants respect from the other. Each desires to be heard, understood, honored and treated kindly and politely. Trust has been damaged, and respect is frayed and floundering. 

But can we treat each other respectfully, even if each camp has done and said things that have damaged the esteem we formerly felt for one another? And would respectful words and actions move us toward restoring genuine respect? Would they help us navigate this situation, repair the divisions, and solve the problems? 

And what would treating each other with respect look like, even if we are not feeling it? We could begin with the old gem, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” That might include giving everyone the benefit of the doubt, not presuming to understand all the complicated nuances of the situation or the difficulties others face. Listen and communicate. Recognize defensiveness in yourself, but don’t act out. Don’t say hurtful things, be gentle, and practice courtesy. Don’t avoid one another (downcast eyes, looking away) but take risks to build genuine relationships. Listen; communicate. Keep things in perspective by remembering to be grateful. Notice the good and speak up about it. Keep working at the solution, don’t give up or bail. Listen and communicate directly, face-to-face, and eye-to-eye. Behave respectfully, and you may earn respect.

So, I would posit that treating someone respectfully is not fundamentally different from respecting that person. Famously it is said you can’t make peace; you have to be peace. You can’t create respect; you have to be respect.

Three Magi


Three Magi, wise and noble,
By intuition, 
A common secret dream.
Set off to find the source of all that Is—
of love,
of hope,
of truth.

Stillness ambles imperceptibly.
Motionless she travels far—

Silence speaks no words
Adds nothing to the frantic roar 
of hate,
and lies.

Solitude bears destiny as she strides forth.
Knows birth and death and all between alone. Her heart
A pulsing,

Three Magi, 
seeking their soul’s star,
walk home.

Respecting Limitations and Letting Go

One of my dreams for retirement was to adopt a dog and train it as a therapy dog. I had owned several cats over my 63 years but never a dog, and I wanted one badly, almost like some women long to have children. I had admired service dogs for many years—their calm, competent demeanor and the trust between them and the people they serve. But I knew I didn’t have the patience or skill to train service dogs. Still, I imagined I could meet the training standards for a therapy dog—well-behaved in public, gentle, reliable, and willing to allow himself to be petted to comfort others. 

So, shortly after retirement, I adopted Digby. I had not planned on getting a puppy, but he was so darn cute I couldn’t resist him. When I met him for the first time, he had just had surgery to repair a broken leg, and he lay on the couch beside me, a huge cone circling his head, licking my hand like crazy, trying to make friends and quell his anxiety. He weighed about ten pounds and was white and apricot, a mix of Pomeranian and Papillon. I thought he would make a perfect therapy dog. His cuteness alone would bring joy to those he visited, and he was small enough to lift onto beds and into laps.

And so, the training journey began. Digby was six months old; still an exuberant, sometimes crazed puppy, and I was sixty-three, inexperienced, with limited energy and patience. The mixture was not quite a recipe for disaster but certainly portended frustration and exasperation for both of us. I could not control his barking, chewing, cat chasing, and peeing indoors for a long time. Likewise, he could not figure out how to please me.

Once we started training classes, I quickly learned I needed training as much as he did. Consistency was my biggest problem. I could not remember to act or react using the same commands in the same order (click, praise, and reward) each time I taught a new behavior. But I persisted, for almost three years, class after class—beginners’ obedience, intermediate, tricks, agility, nose works, advanced obedience, and Canine Good Citizen, repeating some of these classes multiple times. Eventually, he stopped chewing everything in sight and peeing indoors and could walk calmly next to my left knee, which I called “walking nicely.” However, he’s never stopped barking or cat chasing.

Finally, Digby and I made it to the moment of truth, evaluation by a representative of a therapy dog licensing organization in a real live therapy context—a senior healthcare facility. We were both nervous and needed correction and pointers from the evaluator, but after three trials, we were certified. He got his little red heart therapy dog tag, and I got a certificate I could show to volunteer coordinators in settings where we would visit to offer comfort and entertainment. Along the way, I learned that Digby was a performer and a ham. He loved doing tricks to entertain an audience, but he was less comfortable being trotted around from one person to another for pets and cuddles. He loved children and was great at Read to Dog programs in local libraries and schools, but he was terrified of being surrounded by a group of college students seeking the calming presence of a dog during exam week. He was more freaked out than they were. Digby had his limitations, and I had to tailor our volunteer commitments to those.

After discovering his strengths and weaknesses, I focused our therapy work on tricks shows. We offered them to seniors in various healthcare facilities and children at a local library. He loved the mental stimulation, the applause, and the treats he got as rewards. His audiences loved him! “What an amazing little dog!” they clapped and shouted. To keep him stimulated, I taught him more and more tricks, up to 35 or so, and built him an indoor agility course, including a hoop to jump through, a tunnel, a teeter-totter, a ramp for climbing, and poles to weave around. He danced, shook hands, rolled over, crawled, spun, played soccer by rolling a ball through goalposts, and dazzled in many more ways. 

Watch Digby training to roll a ball through goalposts.

Performing together created a special bond between us. I was so proud of the little guy when he turned on a dime and did precisely what I asked, trick after trick, for over half an hour. He looked to me for guidance during the performances in ways he didn’t in other situations. We depended on each other. I loved seeing him succeed and bring joy to the audience; he loved my excitement and praise.

But he got older, and so did I.  After nearly four years of performing, Digby’s formerly broken leg began to show some weakness. He barked more during shows (sometimes frightening the children), tired more quickly, and became impatient during some of the tricks. On the other hand, I found it harder to load the heavy agility equipment in and out of the car and set it up in various venues. And it was hard for me to keep up with Digby as he ran around the agility course. I’d often be nervous about his behavior and enormously relieved when he performed well. We’d come home after a show and take a long nap together, both stressed and tired.

It seemed like Digby’s run as a therapy dog performer had been a short one, barely four years, but I decided we needed to retire, for both our sakes. It was a hard decision. I had invested much time, money, and effort in training. But it wasn’t just that; I would also miss the interdependence we had developed as we trained and performed together and the intimacy it brought to our relationship. And he would miss the mental and physical challenges of doing tricks and the admiration of his audiences. I wondered how I would keep him stimulated and exercised, especially during the long, cold Maine winters. When they heard of our retirement, the volunteer coordinators we worked with were disappointed but said they understood.

I tell this rather long story as an illustration of how many of us feel as we age and bump up against increasing limitations—our inability, for one reason or another, to continue doing the things we love or keep longstanding commitments. Sometimes it feels like failure to admit I no longer have the energy, skill, or interest I once had for certain activities. I hate letting others down, and I may experience a sense of diminishment as the circumference of my life shrinks.

I have three choices. I can try to push myself beyond my limits, whine about my losses, or accept and respect my limitations. Like all living things, I am of a nature to grow old, lose my freshness and vigor, decline into poor health, and eventually die. I try to mitigate these inevitable changes as long as I can—exercising to stay healthy and strong, eating well, and staying involved in work or leisure that stimulates my mind and keeps me connected to others. But do I know how to let go gracefully, when the time is right, of things I can no longer do safely or happily? I built my ego around the things I have accomplished, and when those accomplishments fade, who am I? Do I have anything to contribute? Do I matter to those I love or to the world around me? Respecting my limitations and letting go of what no longer serves me is an opportunity to turn inward and get to know who I am at my core—the I who will survive, transcend, and continue beyond the increasing outward limitations and diminishments.

Digby, reputed to be a fantastic trickster, will soon blend into the growing pack of aging dogs taking shorter and shorter walks around our retirement community. And, though it may not happen quickly, I will one day acquire a walking stick to keep me from tottering as he “walks nicely” beside me.  

Accepting and respecting my limitations is an opportunity to learn graceful letting go and practice it daily as I approach the biggest “let go” of all. As Pema Chodron’s recent book says, How We Live Is How We Die.

Homelessness and Respect, Part Three

Photo of Jack and Vicky’s memorial stone in my garden before I added their names.

(Names have been changed to protect privacy.)

A couple of weeks later, Vicky received an ordinary letter via USPS, delivered by a friend whose address she had been using. It notified her that she was eligible for a one-bedroom apartment in a new luxury high rise with a quota of affordable units. The Section 8 voucher would pay for most of the rent, and about 30 percent of her Social Security income would cover the rest. Jack’s name was not on the voucher, so he would not be able to live there legally. He could only stay as a guest for a certain number of nights per month. Vicky was ecstatic, and Jack was relieved but also angry and resentful. I was relieved but outraged by the stupidity of the system. How could it be good or right to split a couple who had been married for many years by housing one and denying it to the other, especially when Jack had been the primary breadwinner and had kept them alive for years? I was confounded.

I vividly remember the day I drove Vicky to the apartment to see it for the first time. The building was new and fresh, the landscaping gorgeous, the apartment small but ultra-modern, clean, with in-unit laundry, hardwood floors, and top-of-the-line appliances. Neither Vicky nor I could believe her luck. The rental agent was respectful and kind as she gave us a tour, helped Vicky sign the lease, and arranged a move-in date. If she had any doubts about her new tenant, she hid them well. Afterward, back in my car, Jack and Vicky argued, and Jack stalked off, acting like he felt abandoned and scared. Vicky’s world was changing, but what would happen to him? Worried but not knowing what else to do, I dropped Vicky back at the motel. The next day she called to say that later that night, Jack arrived at the motel to make up, and again, take one day at a time.

Besides a few items of clothing, some rudimentary cooking utensils and dishware, and the essential papers they must have with them at all times, Jack and Vicky had nothing to furnish an apartment. Feeling exhilarated by our success, the week between lease signing and moving in, I and others who had befriended them at their intersection rustled up some furniture. One provided a dining table and chairs. A couple of the large home furnishing companies in the area had programs for people moving off the street into subsidized housing. We got a free mattress, box spring, and couch through them. A family in my neighborhood was cleaning out their father’s home after his passing and donated end tables and lamps. Financial donations purchased towels and bed linens. From somewhere, a TV materialized. That was an absolute essential, I soon realized, as Vicky, sick and exhausted from years on the streets, wanted to do nothing but watch it all day long. 

After the portion deducted for the rent, the remainder of Vicky’s Social Security check allowed her to connect basic cable service and a telephone landline. Jack continued to panhandle for food and household supply money. When they first became homeless, they had stashed some of their belongings in the basements and garages of friends, so gradually, they reclaimed these. The most significant stepping stone to relative normalcy was getting Vicky’s engagement ring out of the pawn shop.

Vicky and I had fantasized about a housewarming party to thank those who had helped along the way and celebrate their new home. But that was indeed a fantasy. Neither Jack nor Vicky had the energy or self-confidence to interact with a large group. Though relieved to have a home of their own, they were disoriented and would take a long time to adjust to their new life and break the habits of years of homelessness. They would not open a bank account but paid all their bills with cash or money orders. They did not want a donated computer or an email address, believing that would expose them to the scrutiny of state officials, police, and debt collection agencies. They had an apartment but still did not feel safe and secure. It was not yet their home. Watching them during this transition time showed me that homelessness is not just an outward condition but a state of mind; it takes a long time to change deeply ingrained patterns. They had wanted housing for so long, but now they didn’t know what to do with it. Though Jack was allowed to be in the apartment during the day and kept his things there, he was restless, had to be out on the streets, on the move, and couldn’t relax.

Vicky had smoked compulsively since she was a young girl. She had advanced COPD and congestive heart failure and was a cancer survivor several times. As soon as she moved into the apartment, her legs and abdomen began to fill with fluid. She could hardly move, was nauseated constantly, and couldn’t eat or sleep. Because Jack and Vicky were on Mass Health[1] and Vicky qualified for Medicare, they were not strangers to the healthcare system. I insisted that Vicky make an appointment to see her doctor and planned to drive her there. We arranged a date, and when it arrived, she canceled the appointment saying she was too sick to go.

Several cancellations later, and frustrated with her, I finally accompanied Vicky to the doctor. She was in such bad shape that he immediately recommended hospitalization. She absolutely refused. I argued with her, begged, and finally threw up my hands in frustration. Her excuse was that she couldn’t leave Jack alone, or he might start taking drugs again. This was the first time either of them had said anything to me about drug involvement. Perhaps the early naysayers of my friendship with Jack and Vicky had been right. I was shocked and disappointed. Vicky later denied that Jack ever took drugs. She said she had just used it as an excuse to get me off her case. Still, she refused to go into hospital.

Often, I would plan to visit Vicky and Jack in her home and would receive a call at the last minute saying she was too sick to see me. I began to feel she was avoiding me and wondered if she was tired of being grateful for the help I had given. Oddly, I saw less of them now that they were more stable. I had imagined our relationship would evolve from the helper and advocate to friends now that we could see each other without standing around in the cold or oppressive heat.

Finally, I accepted my powerlessness to persuade Vicky to attend to her health issues. She was more stubborn than I. She continued to smoke, though the apartment building was a smoke-free zone. She would get Jack to take her outside in a wheelchair for a smoke several times a day. He pleaded with her to stop, but she would not listen. Part of her desire to avoid hospitalization, I was convinced, was her addiction to cigarettes and the knowledge that she would not be able to smoke in her hospital bed.

Jack stayed in Vicky’s apartment during the day when he was not panhandling and as many nights a month as allowed within the guest rules. Neither would tell me where he went on those nights he was not with her. Gradually, as he experienced more hernia and hip pain and cut back on the panhandling, he spent more time indoors. Eventually, they disregarded the rules entirely, and he lived with her in the apartment, and after a few years, they mustered the courage to put his name on the lease. The building management saw them as stable and reliable renters and overlooked the rules. Vicky kept trying to get him on the Section 8 voucher, but as far as I know, she was never successful.

I moved further from them the summer after they moved into their home. I left the state to live in a retirement community three hours away. But we exchanged phone calls regularly, and when I returned to the area to see other friends, I visited Jack and Vicky too. 

Now that she had an apartment, Vicky seemed to be in touch with her children again after years of estrangement. I had always been puzzled why her sons didn’t help their mother and stepfather when they were homeless. She never said whether or not her children had helped, and I didn’t want to pry. I can only imagine what I have heard about homelessness and family dynamics applied in this situation. Family members try to help out initially but tire of repeated requests for assistance, resent the drain on their own, often limited resources, and are ashamed of their relatives who cannot pull themselves together and get work and housing. Unable to fix the situation, they avoid their homeless relatives.   I do not know if this was the case with Vicky and her sons. I know she loved them deeply but seemed to expect no assistance from them. She was excited to hear from them on the rare occasion they called, usually to announce the birth of a new grandchild. She would call me all excited to pass on the family news. 

Over the next couple of years, Jack finally had hernia surgery, two hip replacements, and cataract surgeries. He gained weight, took his social security income early, signed up for Medicare, and began to take better care of himself. He stopped panhandling (I believe) and bought a used car. After one visit, I gave him a seat cushion to cover the upholstery tear in the driver’s side seat. He drove me to my next destination when I left their home after a two-hour visit. During that short drive, I felt an easy camaraderie. I marveled at how far he had come. Life seemed relatively normal for him now.

As Jack got stronger, Vicky got weaker. Instead of resisting hospitalization, she was continuously in and out of the hospital to drain the fluid that rapidly built up in her body. Sometimes her stays were thirty days or longer. She might be home for only a few days when Jack would find her unconscious on the couch and call 991 for another trip to the ER and ICU. I talked to both of them by phone and sent them cards and flowers. Vicky was determined to fight for her life. The doctors had begun to speak to her about hospice, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She wanted with all her might to go on living. I wondered how she could consider her life worth living with all its pain and suffering, and she admitted she was exhausted. But she talked about praying that God would miraculously preserve and heal her.

As I watched hospital stay after hospital stay, where she often spent a week in ICU, I thought it ironic that the social safety net was working for Vicky for the first time. I felt sure if it had started supporting her earlier when she and Jack first became homeless, the state may not now be paying hundreds of thousands of dollars in medical expenses for her care.

When she was at home, the social service system provided a caregiver who bathed her, washed her long hair, and did light housekeeping. Jack learned to cook with Vicky’s verbal instruction, carried her from the living room couch, where she spent all day and night, to the bathroom, and did what he could to take care of her. It wore him down, but he would say when I asked how he was doing, “What can I do? It is what it is.”

By now, my spouse accepted my friendship with Jack and Vicky. After each phone conversation, I would report the specifics of their lives, and she shared my concern for them. She no longer feared they would take advantage of me. Other friends would ask, from time to time, how Jack and Vicky were doing. Their movement from homelessness to a stable, somewhat secure home life was considered a success story. People rejoiced for them. Though Vicky was very sick, she wouldn’t die on the streets.

As I watched Vicky’s life ebb away, I thought more about the root causes of the long years of homelessness that destroyed her health and contributed to her imminent death. I knew only a few details about her early life, but what I knew indicated that violence, abuse, and instability had rocked its foundations from the beginning. Her chaotic childhood prevented her from developing the inner psychological resources to cope with illness, job loss, financial insecurity, and homelessness in later life. She lacked the habit of staying organized and focused, of planning for the future. Impulse control was missing, and she was often volatile and verbally abusive. Accessing the social safety net, as full of holes and weak as it is, requires discipline and patience, and Vicky’s early life did not foster those qualities. And she did not have the support of friends and family at the beginning of the slide into homelessness. No one stepped in to hold her up while she got her feet under her again. 

I knew less about Jack’s past. He didn’t mention his family, other than Vicky. Instead, he talked proudly of the work he had done for an interior design business at one time. I’m convinced he had come to think of panhandling as a job, if not a profession. He earned the money he received; I don’t believe he thought of it as charity. The physical effort of standing and walking back and forth for hours on end and the mental effort of reading traffic patterns, recognizing familiar vehicles, and interpreting drivers’ attitudes, absorbed all his energies. He was good at it. He built relationships with his clients by offering something positive to their daily commute experience—a kind inquiry into their health and wellbeing, a comment on the weather, a reflection on what was happening worldwide. He was alert and engaged as he worked hard and long, giving it all he had.

Though Jack and Vicky argued frequently, they loved and relied on one another. Vicky took responsibility for filling out paperwork and making the necessary calls to keep them connected to social services and managing the household once they were in an apartment. Jack went out into the world to earn what he could and make the meager purchases that kept them alive. Jack was Vicky’s second husband and not the father of her children, but she said he had embraced and taken care of them. They were a team, pooling their talents and sticking together no matter what. As she got sicker and finally gave in to hospice care, Vicky had nothing but praise for the loving care Jack offered her. She could be a difficult patient, but he never wavered.


On the 40th day after Jack went silent on me, I received an email message through the then-defunct Go Fund Me account. It was from one of the other commuters, who had befriended Jack and Vicky, helped them financially and with donations of household items, and stayed in touch with them over the years since they moved into their home. It read, “As you probably know, Jack and Vicky have passed away, so if you wanted any money left in this account to go to her son and granddaughter, please contact me,” and gave a phone number. 

I couldn’t believe my eyes! Vicky dead, yes, I had been expecting that, but Jack too! How could that be? A deep sense of loss washed through me.  I called immediately, but the emailer was in the middle of dinner and couldn’t talk. When we spoke the following day, I expressed my shock, and she shared the few details she knew about their deaths. Jack died of a heart attack on July 2, and Vicky thirteen days later on July 15. Like me, this friend had left multiple messages on voicemail toward the end, and Jack’s brother had retrieved them and called back with the news. “It’s a love story,” the woman said. “Jack would have cared for Vicky forever, one day at a time, and Vicky was not going to let go of life while Jack needed her.” I agreed. Jack and Vicky were so intertwined and interdependent that it was impossible to imagine what kind of life Jack could have made for himself after Vicky’s passing.

The woman gave me the address of one of Vicky’s sons, and I intend to send my condolences and ask if or where Jack and Vicky are buried. I found a beautiful smooth beach stone and have written their names on it. I will place it among the flowers in my garden as a reminder of my friends. I loved them and felt loved by them, and I am grateful for what they taught me about resilience, hope, and caring about others whose lives are very different.

They offered me a window into the world of homelessness I would never have encountered otherwise. I’m grateful for the brief glimpse they provided because it showed me that the problem is far more complex than I had imagined. Everyone’s story is different. Homeless people can’t be lumped together in one category or put in one box. I wanted to tell Jack and Vicky’s story to honor their strength, resilience, and dignity. It’s my way of paying tribute to them and their accomplishments against all odds. I feel sad about how we—those with resources, security, and social connections—have misunderstood, avoided, and even vilified people like them. Their deaths have made me sad, and I miss them.

You might imagine that being Jack’s and Vicky’s friend and a participant in their move from unhoused to housed spurred me on to involvement in a movement to address systemic homelessness, but it did not. I’ve never been one for espousing causes. I’m better at getting to know and helping individuals, and I recognize that quality in myself. And now, when my energy is running out, I find myself wanting to tell stories. The overarching theme of this blog is respect, and I respect Jack and Vicky. They were worthy of far more respect than they received. I want to show them to you and invite your respect also.

[1] MassHealth provides health benefits and help to pay for them to qualifying children, families, seniors, and people with disabilities living in Massachusetts.

Homelessness and Respect, Part Two

(Names have been changed to protect privacy.)

I retired in January, and almost six months passed before I heard from Jack. In mid-June, my phone rang, and an unknown number popped up, so as usual, I let it go to voicemail. When I played the message, I heard a raspy female voice identifying herself as Vicky,  Jack’s wife, asking for my help, my financial help. They were, she said, on the verge of being thrown out of the motel and needed money to pay off their room fee debt. Could I help, even a little? I had been dreading receiving such a call. It fulfilled my spouse’s concerns about being taken advantage of by a homeless couple. Still, I felt I shouldn’t turn my back on Jack and Vicky. I had not forgotten Jack during the months I had not seen him, and I wondered why their financial situation had gotten worse. At the time, I considered myself a Christian and routinely asked myself what Jesus would do in challenging situations. I was convinced he would not turn his back on Jack and Vicky.  I called Vicky back and arranged to meet them in the motel parking lot. When I arrived on a hot June day, she hobbled out of the motel toward me, reeking of cigarette smoke. She was as thin as a rake, had long, full, dark-grey hair pulled up in a ponytail, and very few teeth.

“Where’s Jack?” I asked after we had introduced ourselves. I had made a point of telling her I wanted to see them both. 

“He’s inside,” she responded, “too embarrassed to come out. He didn’t want me to call you, but we had no choice.”

“Go ask him to come out, please.” So, she did.

Jack appeared with her a few minutes later. Hands shoved in his jeans’ pockets; eyes cast downward.

We chatted for a few minutes before I handed over the hundred dollars I had settled on giving them. They thanked me profusely. Vicky said she knew my birthday was coming up soon. That felt a little scary, but I must have told Jack my birthdate years ago, and he had told her. She said she was good at remembering stuff like that and that hers was in September. We figured out that we were the same age. Jack was about seven years younger. I told them they couldn’t make financial requests a regular thing because my income was less in retirement. I didn’t mention that my spouse was opposed to me giving them any money. She promised they wouldn’t. I asked for a receipt from the hotel documenting their payment, so Vicky went in and handed over the cash, returning a few moments later with a receipt on hotel letterhead, and I went on my way. On my birthday, I received a voicemail from Vicky wishing me a happy day.

That summer, the department of highways decided to change the traffic pattern at Jack’s intersection, making it a traffic circle. This change had a dramatically negative effect on his income. For a couple of months before construction began, police started enforcing “no panhandling on state highways” laws and forced him and others off this turf to prepare for the work crews. Jack had to find a new intersection. He chose one about a mile away, further from the motel, with less traffic and, therefore, less lucrative. So, he had to work even longer hours, and Vicky started helping. She could hardly walk from leg and hip problems, and her COPD tired her quickly. She had to take a taxi from the motel to the intersection, which added an expense and cut their profits. They fell further behind in their payments to the motel and asked again if I could help. I felt between a rock and a hard place.

I had been bringing them food, toiletries, cookies, and other treats I made, as well as handing out ones and fives, but I felt very uncomfortable about this second large financial request. So, I consulted a friend who does a lot of social justice work and, as an economist, understands the systemic roots of homelessness. She was sympathetic but had no simple solutions. However, she had two suggestions—connect them to housing assistance resources and consider a Go Fund Me campaign to raise money for them more broadly. Neither proposal was uncomplicated. I knew nothing about housing resources and expected the learning curve to be steep. I didn’t even know where to start, and I knew doing the research and making the right connections would take a lot of time. Nevertheless, Jack and Vicky’s situation was urgent, and there was no other route to permanent housing.

As for Go Fund Me, the mailing lists for their campaigns come from one’s personal email contact list. I would put my reputation and trustworthiness on the line by soliciting funds for a homeless couple. What if they misused the funds I raised? I risked embarrassment, at the very least.

I was nervous, but I presented both suggestions to F and D, who were not enthusiastic about the potential success of the first, but relatively comfortable with the second. I learned they had been in the housing assistance system for a long time, encountered barriers at every turn, and were disillusioned and frustrated by the bureaucracy and the people who operated it. They were hesitant but ultimately okay with asking my friends for money through Go Fund Me, even though it would compromise their privacy by displaying their circumstances and pictures on the internet. Nevertheless, they were desperate and felt they had no other choice.

Jack had developed a painful hernia by this time and needed surgery. That provided the specificity required for fundraising. I launched the Go Fund Me campaign with a goal of $2,000 to pay the motel bills so Jack could take time off to have the surgery and recuperate. Money started coming in, not pouring in, but there was a steady stream. I was encouraged and humbled by the trust and generosity of my circle of friends and others I didn’t know, who were moved by Jack and Vicky’s story.

We raised about $1,900, and I withdrew the funds from the account and handed them over to Jack and Vicky, who promptly gave them to the motel and provided me with a receipt. But Jack did not have his surgery and continued panhandling. They were further behind in the payments than they had let on, and he had to keep walking and begging to avoid eviction. I was frustrated and annoyed at both of them for not being upfront with me. The situation was unsustainable, their source of income was drying up, and both were getting physically weaker. We had to put more energy into finding permanent housing.

With a great deal of cynicism about the process, Vicky gave me all the information she had collected about housing assistance, all their personal data, their social security numbers, and the contact numbers of some of the social service people they had dealt with over the years. I started making phone calls and waiting for callbacks. It was slow and discouraging. When I did get a callback, I met with cold skepticism from the social workers. Yes, they knew Jack and Vicky and their complicated situation. They said it was hard to work with the couple because they often didn’t show up for appointments, answer phone calls or submit the necessary paperwork in a timely way. But sure, they’d meet with them again if I could get them to an appointment.

I confronted Vicky about their failure to meet the requirements for housing assistance. She angrily showed me the other side of the picture. Sure, they missed appointments. The Section 8 housing voucher they were seeking must be in Vicky’s name because Jack had a criminal record and was ineligible. (I didn’t ask what he had done, and she didn’t offer that information.) Vicky was often sick and found it very hard to use public transportation to appointments. They couldn’t afford taxis to the housing office, which was miles away. They didn’t return voicemails because they didn’t have the money to add minutes to their cell phones. And the social workers didn’t answer voicemail messages either, she retorted. They had no permanent address, so they had mail delivered to the addresses of friends or relatives who sometimes lost it or took so long to bring it to them that they missed deadlines. They were afraid to have it sent to the motel because they suspected the front desk clerk often opened or threw away renters’ mail. They had been working the system for years and were discouraged and disillusioned. Ironically, it seemed to me, to get housing assistance, one needed all the advantages housed folks have: a permanent address, a phone that was always active, stability, good health, a reliable income, and trustworthy friends. Jack and Vicky had none of these. The system didn’t work for them; to me, it seemed backward, convoluted, discriminatory, and broken.

Nevertheless, as they say, we persisted. I started sitting with Vicky to complete paperwork and began driving her and Jack to appointments. At times I got frustrated with Vicky and with the social workers. We’d have a crucial meeting, and Vicky would be too sick to go, or we’d get the paperwork back after weeks of waiting with a demand for more information. Why hadn’t they asked for such and such in the first place? I learned that Vicky had been on several housing lists for years, but nothing had ever come through. Jack and Vicky said the system was unfair. Other homeless acquaintances had gotten housing more quickly and then broken the rules by allowing friends or family to live with them or by living elsewhere and sub-letting the Section 8 apartment. The system was susceptible to fraud. That made all the social workers jaded.

Amid all this, I started getting criticism from, of all places, a member of my church. She had heard about my involvement with Jack and Vicky and living in the neighborhood where Jack panhandled, she believed she had seen him and Vicky at their intersection. She felt that I was incredibly naïve about homeless people. She insisted that all the panhandlers at that particular intersection were addicts who used the money they collected to buy drugs, and she was sure Jack and Vicky were tricking me. She was only trying to protect me, she protested. I admitted to myself that she might be right. Jack and Vicky had told me of acquaintances who had died of overdoses—women and men who went to rehab, got clean, and then OD’d as soon as they were back on the streets. Jack and Vicky did not look, talk, or act like addicts, but how could I be sure? And yet, I told myself, trying not to be judgmental, even if they were, did they not deserve secure housing? How could they ever escape from addiction unless they had it?

My spouse was also suspicious and afraid that I would be drawn into a bottomless pit of need that would consume too much of my time, energy, and resources. Her concern was not unreasonable either. That sort of thing had happened to me before, most recently with my job and our church. We argued about the situation constantly. Feeling out of my depth and unsure about so many things, I tried to walk a fine line between genuine caring and effective involvement and a healthy distance—reminding myself that I should do what I could but not feel responsible for the whole situation.

As fall progressed and the weather got colder, Vicky got sicker. She had to stop panhandling and stay indoors at the motel all day. Jack’s hernia became more painful, and he shuffled more slowly back and forth at the intersection. I felt a kind of desperation, but they seemed resigned. Winters had come and gone before, and they had survived by putting one foot in front of the other. “One day at a time,” Jack would say, or “It is what it is.”

Then one day, Vicky called to say that she had received notice of a hearing at the local housing office. Her case was to be heard by an arbitrator who would make a recommendation to the housing authority. Could I drive her? We made plans for me to pick her up, and we arrived early to get advice from her housing counselor about what to say at the hearing. We were both nervous, feeling as if everything hung on this brief opportunity to be heard. Vicky, who knew she could be offensively outspoken at times, might say the wrong thing and turn the arbitrator against her. 

Four of us—Vicky, the arbitrator, the counselor, and I gathered around a large table. The arbitrator asked Vicky a series of questions about her current homeless situation. The social worker made a bland statement about Vicky’s worthiness. The arbitrator turned to me last and asked why I was there. I responded that I was Vicky’s friend and advocate. She wanted to know a little bit about my background and whether I was likely to continue to help Vicky. I assured her I planned to stick around.  

At the end of the hearing, the arbitrator explained the next steps and when we might hear from the housing authority, and then wrapped up by saying, “Does anyone have anything final to add?” We all looked at each other, and then, shocking myself, I said, “If Vicky doesn’t get housed very soon, she is going to die this winter.” Jaws dropped around the table. No one else said anything, and the arbitrator gathered her files and got up to leave. 

Outside the room, the counselor, Vicky, and I discussed how the hearing had gone. The counselor took me aside and told me that my final remark would probably make or break the case, depending on whether the arbitrator judged it a stunt or the truth. Great, I thought I may have ruined Vicky’s chances. Back in the car, Vicky thanked me with tears in her eyes but admitted that what I had said about her possibly dying scared her. It scared me too. [TO BE CONTINUED]

Homelessness and Respect, Part One

(I’ve changed the names of my friends to protect their privacy).

It’s been 39 days since I have heard from Jack. I’m assuming that his wife, Vicky, has died. I’ve called and texted him repeatedly but received no response. I’ve tried to reach our one mutual acquaintance, but she has not responded to my email inquiring if she has any news. I’ve looked online for an obituary or death record but found nothing. I’ve even considered calling the police in their town but have decided against that. Jack and Vicky are uncomfortable with the police. I doubt that law enforcement would give out any information anyway. I’ve wondered about showing up at their apartment building to see if the management will tell me what has happened.

I wanted to be there for both Jack and Vicky at Vicky’s death—be there from a distance, at least, because Jack turned down my offer to come in person. Instead, he promised he would keep me posted about all developments, and then, 39 days ago, after texting that Vicky was having a better day than she had for a long time and wondering if that signified the calm before the storm, he dropped off the radar screen.

I fear all sorts of traumatic developments. Perhaps Jack broke down after Vicky’s death, could not cope with the loss, and was hospitalized. He cared for her almost entirely by himself since her last hospital stay—90 grueling days and nights, aided only by minimal hospice support. I even imagine that he might have given her a lethal dose of morphine to end her suffering and has been charged with causing her death. I’m good at imagining the worst.

Or maybe he’s been evicted from their apartment, which they could only afford because of a Section 8[1] housing voucher issued in Vicky’s name. (All attempts to get Jack’s name on the voucher failed.) Perhaps he is homeless again, without a cell phone, so he is not getting my messages. Maybe he is even in jail. Who knows what grief may have led him to do after Vicky’s passing? Or perhaps he wants nothing more to do with me. I promised Vicky I would stay in touch with Jack after she was gone, but possibly he wants to be left alone.

Out of respect for their privacy, I’ve waited years to write about Jack and Vicky—the story of our relationship and what I have learned from them. Knowing them has been an intimate encounter with homelessness, its causes (personal and systemic), and its effects on the body, mind, spirit, and family. The story is not only theirs; it is mine also. Getting deeply involved with a homeless couple challenged and changed my life.   

I can’t pretend to know anything more about homelessness than what I have learned from Jack and Vicky. Those who work with the chronically homeless may find my interactions with this couple and my observations on homelessness naïve and simplistic. If so, my only defense is that my responses probably represent many educated white people with relative financial security and a network of friends and family who offer us support in difficult circumstances. (Jack and Vicky are white, by the way.)

So, let me begin with how they came into my life. About ten years ago, Jack was panhandling at an intersection I passed through each day on my morning and evening commute. It bordered the town where I worked and was the final stoplight before the highway leading west to my home. I met him for the first time at about 7:00 p.m. during rush hour on a dark, cold winter evening. As I inched along toward the intersection, I saw a medium-height man bundled in a bulky winter coat several sizes too large, with a wool cap pulled down over his ears. Because of the ice and snow, he shuffled slowly and carefully back and forth along the line of cars stopped for the light. He held a cardboard sign—I don’t remember what it said.

A panhandler was a familiar sight to me. At that time, I saw them regularly at any number of intersections in the Boston area. But it was unusual to see them as late as 7:00 p.m. or in such cold temperatures. Panhandlers were usually not that dedicated. I slowly approached the head of the line and rolled down my window, rooting through my purse to find a one-dollar bill.

“Hi! Cold for you to be out,” I said

“Sure is. How are you tonight?” he responded with a smile.

The light turned green, and with a brief, “Fine, how are you?” I held out the bill and then pushed the up button on the car window. He smiled again, waved, and started walking back along the line of cars.

We repeated this impromptu rendezvous nightly for months. Whether I left work at 5:00 or 8:00 p.m., he was at the intersection, walking up and down the line of cars in worn-down sneakers, offering a smile and a greeting to everyone in the traffic queue. His eyes did not have the dull glaze of an addict, and his discipline and commitment far outweighed any other panhandler I had met. After a week or so, I made it a habit to save all my one-dollar bills and keep them ready to hand so I would not have to search for one in my wallet. Over time we exchanged first names, and he would speed up to get to my window when he saw my car approaching. I noticed he was having more extended conversations with the drivers in front of me. He’s made some friends, or, perhaps, regular clients, I thought. That pleased me.  His hard work and perseverance were paying off. I admire hard work, am a disciplined worker, and understand the toll it takes on the body and spirit. I felt Jack and I were kindred spirits, in a way.  Both working long exhausting days.

Spring inched along like the line of cars, and, depending on the traffic lights, I could keep my window open longer and have more than a two-sentence chat with Jack. Off came the wool cap to reveal medium-length curly greying hair. His mustache, oddly enough, was always neatly trimmed, though sometimes his beard showed several days of growth. He looked skinny beneath his oversized winter coat. I reckoned he was about my age, perhaps a little younger.  Even though his face was weathered, it was not wrinkled or scarred but attractive and babyish, in a way.

I don’t remember how long it was before my curiosity about who this man was and why he was panhandling overcame my shyness and reticence to pry—maybe six months, perhaps a year. I decided to invite Jack to dinner to ask him about his life. I chose a restaurant near his intersection and made the invitation. When I think about it now, he must have wondered who this weird woman was, inviting a homeless man to dinner. He seemed skeptical and hesitant. Why had I imagined he’d be enthusiastic? I guess I thought he’d welcome a hot, filling meal. Finally, I owned up to wanting to hear his story, and he reluctantly agreed on a day and time. For the next several days, I reminded him each time I saw him, but on the agreed-upon evening, I stood outside the restaurant for more than half an hour before I gave up and drove home. When I passed through Jack’s intersection, he wasn’t there.

The next time I saw him, I asked what had happened, joking about him standing me up. He looked embarrassed and made some excuse which I don’t remember. Suddenly I felt embarrassed. Perhaps he thought I was trying to start a romantic relationship. I wasn’t, though under different circumstances, I admitted to myself I might have considered it. There was something compelling about Jack. So, I gave it some time, and things became comfortable between us again—easy chatting for a few minutes each day, freely asking about each other’s wellbeing.  

A few months later, I tried a dinner invitation again, and Jack accepted readily and showed up this time. He was uncomfortable when he arrived, but I figured his curiosity got the better of his caution—curiosity about this strange woman who wanted to get to know him, of all people. We ordered, and I dug in, but he only picked at his food and ate little. Finally, I asked him to tell me why he was panhandling. When I think about it now, I am shocked at my intrusiveness. What right did I have to pry into his life? None, but I intensely wanted to understand what motivated him—someone, whose life was so different from mine but who seemed to share the same work ethic?

He told me about Vicky, his wife, who was sick, saying that they lived in a nearby motel. They had been homeless for a long time, more than a decade, since a place they were house-sitting was sold out from under them. They had both lost their jobs. I’m now unclear why, but I vaguely remember he said the company he worked for went out of business. They had stayed temporarily with friends, but ultimately, this motel was the only place they could find consistent shelter together (they hate the homeless shelters, which separate couples unless they have children.) It cost them about $70.00 a night to stay there, so Jack worked all day, every day, panhandling to raise that amount. Many days he didn’t reach the required total, fell into arrears, and they were always afraid of being thrown out. If it were just him, he said, he’d sleep outside except in winter, but Vicky couldn’t do it.

His story was rambling, and it was hard to keep him on track. He wanted to know about my life, too, so I told him where I worked and that I lived in a western suburb, was married but had no children—the bare minimum. My spouse, you see, was extremely nervous about me getting involved with a homeless person—afraid that Jack would show up at our door demanding money or break into the house. It had been the source of several arguments between us, and I knew she was anxiously waiting at home for me to return from this dinner.

That night when we parted, I handed Jack five twenty-dollar bills, explaining that I had kept him away from his work for over an hour and he would have lost income. This cash was to make up for that deficit. He seemed shocked and flustered but accepted the cash. We said goodbye, and he shuffled off toward the intersection. I got into my car to drive home. On my way, I passed the motel he had mentioned and looked at it for the first time. It was a fleabag. I was appalled they were charging that much per night.

Jack and I continued to see each other through the car window on my daily commute. I learned that he had to arrive at the intersection early in the day to claim his turf before some other panhandler did so. He told me that some of his colleagues were not homeless, and many were addicts. Fights sometimes broke out over turf. Jack stayed all day at his intersection in all kinds of weather and as late at night as necessary to make the nightly motel fee.

He told me people gave him all sorts of things through their car windows: food (from fresh sandwiches to canned soup), bottled water, clothing, shoes, cigarettes (he didn’t smoke, but Vicky did), and money. The food could be pretty bad sometimes, he said. From time to time, I would see him talking on a cell phone. I learned later that it was a burner, and he could only use it when he could afford to purchase a phone card to activate it. That’s how he stayed in touch with Vicky during the day.

I began to tell him when I would be away on vacation and to give him a little advance cash to help in my absence. Once every so often, I would give him a twenty instead of a one. I’d ask about Vicky, and he’d tell me about her health. Sometimes he’d look exhausted, but no matter how slowly, he kept going. He was just as committed to his job as I was to mine for the same reasons.

Our relationship went on this way for several years, two or three at least. And then, it came time for me to retire. I told Jack this was coming and that I would miss seeing him regularly. He didn’t complain, though he would lose a client and a regular income source. Instead, he focused on me—my retirement plans, the things I would enjoy about it. He seemed truly happy for me. I struggled with wanting to stay in touch and whether to give him my phone number. In the end, I did so against the better judgment of my spouse. He, however, did not offer me his. [TO BE CONTINUED]

[1] The housing choice voucher program [Section 8] provides assistance to very low-income families to afford decent, safe, and sanitary housing. Housing can include single-family homes, townhouses and apartments and is not limited to units located in subsidized housing projects. Housing choice vouchers are administered locally by Public Housing Agencies (PHAs). A family that is issued a housing voucher is responsible for finding a suitable housing unit of the family’s choice where the owner agrees to rent under the program. A housing subsidy is paid to the landlord directly by the PHA on behalf of the participating family. The family then pays the difference between the actual rent charged by the landlord and the amount subsidized by the program.

Two Tales About Respect

One – Self-Respect

I’m trying to help someone hard of hearing fill a prescription for her asthma inhaler. First, I call the pharmacy to see if the refill order we submitted several days ago has been filled. The pharmacist tells me the inhaler is ready for pick up, so I send S off to the pharmacy to get it. She returns and says that the inhaler costs $50 more than it did the last time she refilled it; insurance has refused to pay for it, and the pharmacist recommends calling the insurance company. I sigh because this has happened before, and sorting it out has not gone smoothly, but I make the call.

The customer service representative tells me that, oddly enough, for this script, the brand inhaler is less expensive ($50) than the generic, and the doctor has ordered the generic, which costs $100. Still, he says, there should be no problem because he can see on S’s record that the pharmacy placed a claim yesterday for $50 for the brand inhaler. So why I ask, is the pharmacy now trying to charge $100? He says he doesn’t know; I should call the pharmacy back.

I do. The pharmacist says the insurance company is wrong; the doctor prescribed the $100 generic, but the patient refused to accept it, so they canceled the order. The calm tone in my voice deteriorates, and its pitch rises. I am frustrated. The insurance company is saying one thing, the pharmacy another. I try again to explain what the insurance agent has said and ask the pharmacist why a claim was made yesterday for $50. The pharmacist denies this. Why can’t they just give us the brand version, I ask. The pharmacist repeats, slowly, as if talking to a child, that she can do nothing more to help except call the doctor’s office on our behalf, or I can call instead. I ask her to stop and listen to me. I say I’m not stupid, and she responds that she didn’t say I was stupid. I counter, “You are talking to me like I am stupid.” Suddenly, a light goes off in my head, flashing neon red – DISRESPECT! 

Now I am angry. I snap at the pharmacist, “Never mind. I will call the doctor’s office and sort this out myself.” We hang up, and I do so. I try to explain calmly to the medical assistant that I’m frustrated and need to talk directly to a human being about a prescription refill—no voicemail, no leaving a message. This is an emergency. The patient has asthma and needs her inhaler right away. I explain the cost differential between brand and generic. The assistant gets it, takes the matter in hand, puts me on hold for a couple of minutes, then returns to say it’s all set. They have sent a script for the brand inhaler to the pharmacy. I hang up and feel relieved. Then S comes to me holding her phone, which transcribes voicemails into texts. She shows me a text from the pharmacy, received while I was on the phone with the doctor’s office, saying they have sorted everything out, re-run the prescription for the brand version, and it’s ready for pick up. No apology and no recognition that there had been any previous confusion. “OMG! Why didn’t they do that in the first place?” I scream.

Later, I reflect on this incident. First, I am embarrassed and ashamed of my childish and rude behavior toward the pharmacist. Second, I realize that the moment I felt disrespected, my controlled frustration turned into boiling anger. Then I ask myself why feeling disrespected disturbs me so much. Suddenly I have a flash of insight; someone else’s disrespectful treatment triggers my lack of respect for myself—my deep-rooted sense that I am stupid, inadequate, and unacceptable. So, besides working on breathing and calming down when disrespect provokes anger, I must also work on respecting myself. And that is a really tall order! But, if I can do that, perhaps it will help me genuinely respect the others I encounter in pharmacies, doctor’s offices, insurance companies, and everywhere. 

Does this ring a bell, touch a nerve, or resonate with you?

Two – Other Respect

It’s 11:00 a.m. on a hot summer day. I pull into the parking lot of a memory care facility where I am visiting a patient. When I exit my car, I notice a small dog in the car parked next to mine. Alarm bells go off in my head as I remember all the warnings about leaving children and animals in closed-up vehicles in hot weather. The driver cracked all four windows about two inches, but it must still be sweltering inside the car. What shall I do? I decide to go inside and ask the receptionist if they know who owns the vehicle. They don’t. I’m pretty worked up by this time, wondering what to do, so I go back to the car and try the passenger side door. To my great relief, it opens. The little dog, looking forlorn but okay, lays on the front passenger seat and looks up at me with sad eyes.

The dog is no longer the problem, but I know the owner will be one. So I decide to wait until they return and confront them about leaving the dog in a hot car. I wait about 10 minutes, petting the dog on the head, talking soothingly to it, and looking around for the owner. I worry about what to say to them but can’t settle on anything that feels comfortable, so when he arrives, I haven’t decided what to say, and I’m not ready.

I begin badly. “This is terrible; it’s too hot to leave a dog in a closed car!” His back goes up immediately, and he defensively explains that he is taking care of an elderly father who lives in this facility; he takes excellent care of this dog and doesn’t need my interference to add to his stress load. Besides, it’s not that hot, and he’s only been gone 15 minutes; the dog would have been fine. He slams the passenger door, gets in the car, and drives off. I’m angry and embarrassed and know I have handled the situation poorly, but I try to put it aside and visit the patient I’ve come to see.

Later, as I reflect on the incident, still feeling uncomfortable about my reaction, I try to rationalize my behavior. Probably the dog would have been okay, but how was I to know how long the owner had been gone or when he would return? What if the door had not been unlocked? Would I have called the police? That would have made an enormous scene. Should I have suggested that the next time he leaves the dog in the car, he should leave a note on the window saying how long he would be gone? Should I have expressed sympathy about his stress? However disrespectfully I behaved toward the owner, I still did not regret my intervention on behalf of the dog.

After more self-examination, I realized that I spent the entire ten minutes waiting for the owner’s return stewing about how to confront him. Instead, I could have paused, identified the roots of my feelings and calmed them, opened my mind and heart to the owner’s perspective, and chosen a kind, non-aggressive approach to intervention. One takeaway—if you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything. I knew nothing about the life of this dog owner, but I chose to judge him and find him unworthy of respect.

I still don’t believe he should have left his dog in the car, but I hope I will respond less self-righteously, more courteously, and skillfully in similar future situations.

Does this ring a bell, touch a nerve, or resonate with you?

What Is (Noticing Respect)

It’s a chilly day in June, Sunday afternoon, drizzling, and I am going grocery shopping. My sister and I dislike shopping in the rain—something about getting ourselves and our purchases wet, I suppose. 

So, I start out slightly annoyed, but remind myself, as I swing my backpack over my shoulder, walk away from my bright yellow Kia Soul, and pop up my vibrant lime umbrella: This is what is. Or, as my stepdaughter would say: It is what it isno point in wishing for something else or resisting it. Open to it.

The first cart I extract from the queue makes a thunk, thunk, thunking sound as I roll it toward the produce section. Nuts to this! I turn around and take it back to the entrance. As I approach the line of empty carts, a man pulls up behind me and offers, “This one is quieter; take this.”  I say he’s lucky, and the next one I choose will be quieter too. It is, and we laugh.

I park my cart out of the way in the produce section and walk in all directions, list in hand, picking up the things I need and crossing them off one by one. I’ve discovered that if I touch a moist vegetable like a cucumber before I open one of the plastic bags to drop it in, my damp fingers will make it easier to open the bag. I’ve also remembered that I have hand sanitizer in my purse and could use it to moisten my fingers. Pre-COVID, I used to lick them. Yuck! Now I have more respect for germs and other people.

Near the gourmet cheese section, I notice a display of Effie’s Oatcakes, which I haven’t been able to find for months. I’m overjoyed and snatch up two packages. I want to buy more, but they’re expensive, and I don’t want to be a hoarder. Others might like them too.

As I pull out of produce and into the grocery aisles, I notice a family shopping together—a man in a motorized wheelchair, a tall blond boy, and two or three younger girls—no mother in sight. One of the girls is pushing their cart, and the others are all over the place, pointing to things and asking if they can get them. I’m trying to get raspberry jam, and a surge of impatience rises in me. 

The man in the wheelchair says, “Sorry, ma’am. I try to keep them out of others’ way. Thank goodness their older brother is here to help.” 

“No worries,” I smile, feeling my impatience ebb away. One of the little girls moves aside, and I slip the jam into my cart. I meet them again in practically every aisle. They are cheerful, patient, and polite to one another and the shoppers around them.

Halfway through my shop, I still have not found the sun-dried tomatoes I am looking for, so I stop a name-tagged employee and ask if he might know where they would be. He pauses, stares into space, and goes inside himself. Slowly he says as if the words are arising from somewhere deep within, “If you are looking for the ones in the jar, they’d be with the pasta sauce.” And then, from deeper within, “The packaged ones are on an end display near the garlic in produce.”  I am impressed. “Okay, thanks. I’ll look in both places.” Again, I park the cart out of traffic and backtrack. Sure enough, they are exactly where he said they would be, and I score the last package in the store.

When I get to the checkout, every open checker is backed up. So, I choose the shortest line and settle in for the wait, noticing an older woman in front of me. When it’s her turn to unload, I see that every single item in her cart is store-brand: cereal, milk, crackers, bread, the whole lot. I wonder why. Prices are dramatically higher these days; is she trying to economize?

When it’s my turn to check out, I have a little tussle with the bagger. He wants to put my toilet paper and paper towels in the cart first. A seasoned shopper, I know those lighter items belong on top of the full bags once they are wedged tightly into the small cart. (I insist on using the smaller one because I am an older woman and find the large ones unwieldy.) He protests that he needs space to pack, and I temporarily move the paper products to the floor. So, he acquiesces, and I achieve my desired arrangement. Near the end, he holds up a loaf of brioche that slipped out of its wrapper during the checkout. 

“Sorry,” he says, “it slipped right out of the bag. I’ll get you another one. “Oh!” I look around to see a checkout area inundated with people and humming with activity. It’s a busy time for him. “Do you want me to do it?” “No, it’s not a problem. I’ll be right back.”  I park my cart and put my wallet in my backpack while I wait. 

Behind me is a father with his gawky nine-ish-year-old daughter in the checkout line. She wants a helium balloon as a treat, and he keeps showing her one option after another. She whines, “No, not that one! No, not that one!”  Finally, he says, “You’re getting this one!” and hands it to the checker. The girl is still whining.

In a few moments, my bagger returns, triumphantly bearing a fresh loaf. I thank him and turn my heavy cart toward the exit. In front of me is a short, stocky woman pushing a bigger, equally overflowing cart. She’s shuffling slowly toward the sliding doors, and again, a surge of impatience rises in my chest.

I pause and take a breath as I wait for her to get up some steam. People of all sizes and shapes, dressed stylishly and slovenly, pushing carts piled high or carrying single bags, mill around me. Each of us has some large or small impediment, some secret or obvious affliction, blemish, or limitation. Yet, here we are, going about our lives on a rainy Sunday afternoon. This is what is, I remind myself. Open to it.

As I emerge into the rain, the nine-year-old is skipping behind her dad, happily gripping the string on her bright red balloon. It floats above her head amid the raindrops and proclaims, “Best Day Ever!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Afterthought: My perspective is unquestionably western, white, and middle-class. When I finish writing the above, I wonder what is for Ukrainians amid war. What is for Uyghurs in Xinjiang, China, undergoing forced sterilization and labor, or for black parents in American neighborhoods afraid of gang and police violence? What is for survivors of climate disasters that destroy their homes and livelihoods or for children trapped in a schoolroom with an active shooter?  

How does a person engage, cope, deal with, or enter into reality, however benign or horrific? Can it possibly be the same interior process of pausing, breathing, noticing, and opening that I experienced at the grocery store? Can we practice today for the ultimate challenge that may come to each of us one day soon? I leave you and myself with that question.