October 7, 2019
Today, we’d enter the office after a weekend of rest. A fall October sky in the greater northwest would canvas the chilling breeze. Whatever jacket you chose to stay warm in may not have cut it—but you remember the afternoon sun may burn off the chill.
Before settling in at your cubicle desk, office, or station of work, the beggar at the freeway exit ramp re-infiltrates your conscious thoughts. Brushing aside guilt, suppressing the idea you had extra change, it doesn’t change the event in which you did not give.
In Portland, the homeless situation gets worse every month. So much, I can imagine they must be fighting for begging territory. How lucky did the man or woman you saw with the sign get to have that space to ask for help? Is it an early bird gets the early worm type deal? Or, you learn from others’ mistakes; the second mouse gets the cheese…?
What’s even worse is they are often trying to find places to lay. Beneath a sky, and moving through space we all care to have; a homeless man or woman is at the grit of survival.
They would like to be heard, given the opportunity for a plan out of their situation, and/or provided care for a way to get off whatever substance it is hindering their opportunities.
The essence is recognition—there’s a lot of individuals to recognize for that matter.
We breathe the same air as the homeless. In part, walk the same sidewalks downtown. I personally have recognized the way I’m asking for support is nothing more than what they are doing on freeway exits.
I just have a fancy computer and desk to virtually do so on.
Acknowledgement is first. I am no different than the beggar on your corner, and neither are you.
Some of us are begging for attention daily on social media. Some are begging for care from others. Whether you realize it or not, most of us are begging for better structure; a planned future, promised income, or a way to will forward. If life is simple, maybe it’s your spouse’s love you don’t have to beg for. It’s simply there when you get home.
I woke up with the mind of a homeless man today. Not sure if I’ll have my home in three months, six months, or a year from now. Uncertainty is my new game of life, and virtually looking for a freeway exit to seek help from strangers at.
As a full-time writer, I’m at my desk writing to the world, thinking of all the street beggars and artists’ faces I ignored working downtown Portland in the past. I might’ve planned to be here—living a dream for which the nightmare plays in disguise.
But here’s the reality in why I might’ve ignored those faces.
Regardless of your skin color, I saw a potential ‘me’ in them. Meanwhile, thinking how many of them started with a dream, but ended up on the streets?
So far in mines, I’ve become the virtual you[them].