Category Archives: Homelessness

The past is not the only avenue to the future.

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When asked, “What did you fear most when you were homeless,” Gladys* answered without hesitation. “Dying on the streets.”

Recently, I met with the board of a community association where the foundation I work for is considering building a 25 – 30 unit apartment building for formerly homeless Calgarians.

It wasn’t an easy meeting. It wasn’t all sun and roses and welcome to our community.

There was openness. Curiosity. Awareness and a desire to be inclusive and supportive.

There was also fear. Concern. Misunderstanding and misconceptions present.

And there was possibility.

It is the possibility I want to stay with. To expand. To stretch out across the room, the community, the city so that every Calgarian can understand, fear of dying on the streets is real for some people. It is a constant grinding away at their existence. A continuous eating away at their experience of life leaving them to believe, there is no other way, no other street to walk. There is only this existence that is killing them.

Gladys no longer worries about dying on the streets. She is living in an apartment now. In her new way of being she is supported by people who understand her fears, and who believe that with compassionate care, she can thrive in community.

Her thriving will not look like yours or mine. It will be different. But then, mine is different than yours and yours is different than someone else’s. It is our differences that create the vibrancy of our communities. It is our diversity that builds strength into the intersections of our lives.

There is possibility in our differences. There is connection.

When I left the meeting, I marveled at the similarities of our perspectives and experiences.

One man at the meeting, in an attempt to ‘do good’ in a community in another city, had bought a building that was in receivership. He renovated it and provided low rent housing for individuals living on the margins.

It was not easy. It was not a good experience, he shared with the group. I will oppose this project 1,000 percent, he said.

I can understand his fears.

Like Gladys (*which is not her real name), his fears are built on an experience that did not meet his expectations. He set out to ‘do good’ and felt bad with the outcome. He felt abused. Betrayed. Confused. Why would people treat his property so badly? Why couldn’t they see he was trying to help them? To make a contribution to society?

Like Gladys, this man is stuck in his experiences and fears, in his belief that no matter what he does, or anyone else does, it can never be another way. The past dictates the present and determines the future.

My experience is different. My experience has led me to this place where I believe the past does not make the present a repetition of what happened then, again and again. My belief is that when we use our experiences of the past with the intent to inform our actions for the better today, we can create better, we can make a difference.

There are people living on our streets today, and in our emergency shelters, who have given up on believing there is another way. They live with the constant fear that dying on the streets will become their future.

In the streets they walk everyday, they have lost sight of possibility. They have lost hope for a new way of being present in the world.

There are people living in our communities today, who have given up on believing there is another way. They live with the constant fear that without high fences, without holding onto to what they have, they will be unsafe in their homes and in their community.

In the streets they walk everyday, they have lost sight of possibility. They have lost hope for a new way of being present in the world.

For my world to change, I must change how I see my world.

When I look at it through eyes of fear, I know fear.

When I breathe into possibility, when I open myself up to allowing possibility for another way to arise, my world becomes a reflection of what I want to create more of in the world around me.

We all know fear. We have all been touched by change and its constant hammering away at the walls of our comfort zones demanding we learn to stretch, to find new moves that will take us away from where we are into that place where anything is possible if we let go of holding onto to what we know and tell ourselves we cannot let go of.

Just as Gladys is learning to let go of street life so that she can embrace a new way of being present in the world today, the possibility exists for each of us to create the kind of world we want to live in. The kind of world our children can live in too. To find a new way of being present in the world today, we must we let go of believing the past is the only avenue to the future.

 

 

 

 

Wow! What a miracle!

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keys logoIt is 6:58am. I am sitting at my desk, still in my pjs, putting the finishing touches to my blog, getting it ready to publish.

The phone rings. I check caller ID. My youngest daughter’s name appears on the tiny LED screen. Why is she calling me so early?

“Aren’t you coming to the Keys to Recovery Breakfast?” she asks before I even say hello. Befor I even have a chance to ask, “What’s wrong?” (Why else would she call before 7am?)

I almost drop the phone. On no! I have completely forgotten to watch the time. I am due to be speaking at the Keys breakfast at 7:30.

“I’ll be there in 20!” I yell into the phone. I don’t press Publish. I don’t shut my computer down.

I am stripping off my pajamas as I race into the bedroom where Marley the Great Cat is still sleeping on C.C.’s chest. C.C. opens one eye as I fling drawers open, the closet doors and start rifling through its contents looking for something to wear.

“I need your help, please,” I say, pulling on a pair of pants. And I explain what’s happening. I don’t want to have to find a parking spot downtown during rush hour. Is he willing to drive me?

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course,” he replies.

It’s a bit of a miracle! Twenty-two minutes after the phone rang, I am walking into the Petroleum Club ready to take on the day.

GRACE- It could have gone two ways. My lateness could have left me feeling anxious, stupid, angry. Or, it could have left me feeling calm, prepared, open.

It was my choice how I chose to respond to the circumstances.

I chose Grace.

I chose to breathe into the anxiety that was mounting as 7:30 approached and C.C. was navigating rush hour traffic.

I chose to remind myself my speech was prepared as I greeted the wonderful Karen Crowther, Executive Director of Keys to Recovery and told her the funny story of my morning’s lapse in time keeping.

I chose to accept myself, exactly where I was at.

It wasn’t about my forgetfulness earlier in the morning. It was all about my being there on time, ready to give my best to inspire the 40 or so guests invited to this special Keys breakfast. That was why Karen had asked me to speak. To inspire the special guests in attendance to get engaged,  interested and involved in supporting the important work Keys does in our community.

To have allowed myself to let anxiety, self-recriminations, or anger interfere with my purpose would have been to make it all about me. It would have been to expect perfection from my human condition, and given that I’d already messed up my timing, that was obviously not on the agenda!

I am grateful. My youngest daughter sits on the board of Keys and, like everyone there, was highly invested in making the event a success. She had the wisdom, and the grace, to give me a call.

C.C., recognizing my flight of panic, stepped in to also ensure I was able to turn up, without anxiety eroding my confidence.

I am blessed. I have a network of people around me, supporting me, cheering me on and shining their light so that I can shine mine.

It isn’t that way for those living in homelessness. Their light is darkened by the realities of living with no fixed address. It is dimmed by the weight of struggling each day just to stay alive. It is shadowed by the addictions, mental health crises and other factors that continually inhibit their ability to take a step away from that place where all they have to carry through the day is the label that they never imagined would be their’s – ‘homeless’.

That’s why Keys to Recovery, and all the other agencies who work together to end homelessness in someone’s life every single day, are so important to our community. It takes a community working together to build a way out of homelessness.

It takes people working together to create a community where no matter their circumstances, those who have fallen on the road of life, have a way to get back home.

And that’s why it’s so important we stand together with Karen Crowther and her amazing team and all the other incredible people who give so much to ensuring those who have not, have someone to stand beside them as they make the journey from the darkness of homelessness into the light of having a home where they belong.

It took a community of caring people to get me to my destination on time yesterday.

It takes a community to end homelessness.

Thank you Karen and all your team. In just one year, 129 people housed. 129 people moving out of homelessness, beyond their addictions into lives that they can once again be proud of.

And thank you Deb for sharing your story, for inspiring all of us to remember that ending homelessness isn’t just about ‘the numbers’. It’s all about the people. It’s all about ensuring that no matter where someone falls, they know there are people walking with them as they find their way back home to that place where they can wake up every morning, look into the mirror with clear eyes and say, Wow! What a miracle!

 

 

Let the change begin with me.

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The requests are simple. An electric kettle. A set of double sheets. A heating pad. A gift card to a bookstore.

And underneath the requests, is that place of humility. Of humanness. Of gratitude. Of community.

This is the second year we’ve organized Christmas at the Madison. The second year we’ve held the concert. Interviewed clients for the wishlist, bought gifts and put on Christmas dinner.

It isn’t something I do alone. It’s something that happens becase many people commit to being part of it, to sharing their talents, time and treasures to ensure no one is left out in the cold on Christmas morning.

The wishlist idea stemmed from my work at the homeless shelter where for over 7 years now, clients have been invited to share a bit of their story that is then put online so that Calgarians can read their wish and possibly make it come true this Christmas.

Yesterday, I spoke with Jennie Keeran, the founder and brilliance behind the Christmas WishList, and the found of “Homeless Partners“. When she originally walked into my office in 2007 I really had no idea what she was talking about, or even if it was possible to fulfill on her dream of sharing the spirit of Christmas with clients at the shelter. But, Jennie is a woman of vision. A woman who doesn’t recognize the limits of ‘no’ and sees only the possiibilities of ‘yes’.

That first year of hosting the WishList for Homeless Partners was kerr-aazy!

Volunteers descended upon the shelter night after night, organized by the indefatigable Brandi M who also hears only the power of yes — Yes! Of course we can do that. Yes! Let’s make it work. Between Brandi and Jennie, and all the volunteers they organized to interview and to post the stories and wishes online, over 600 people received a gift of their choice that year.

It was incredible. Mark P, who works at the shelter, and his wife Natalie dove into receiving and organizing and sorting the gifts, giving up their Christmas weekend to be on site to ensure every gift was placed into the right hands, every thank you was captured.

The Christmas WishList is a story of community and collaboration. It’s about being committed to not just ‘giving’ but of connecting, hand to hand, heart to heart, to ensure everyone feels seen, acknowledged, visible on Christmas morning.

Yesterday, when I chatted with Jennie, I found myself enveloped once again in that special place that she creates where there are no limits, no ‘can’t do that’s’ no, impossible’s!

I found myself sharing in this one woman’s passion, commitment and heart. I found myself inspired to keep turning up, to keep allowing, to keep being the change I want to see in the world.

It is for me, a wonderful gift to receive. To be reminded, that no matter what, it isn’t how people receive that makes the difference, it’s that I give. My best. My all. My utmost to ensuring this world becomes a kinder, more caring, more compassionate and just world — every day of the year.

Yes, the Wishlist focuses on Christmas. But underneath the glitter and the bows, the gift-giving and the unwrapping, is the message that speaks to me of what it means to be alive and breathing on this planet every day of the year.

We are all one planet. One air we breathe. One earth upon which we walk. And while maps may show invisible lines of demarcation, zones where war wages and countries are bounded by barbed wire and armed guards, there is no dividing line between our humanity.

We are all one.

We all have the capacity to give. To create. To be the change we want to see in the world.

I want to see a more compassionate, caring, kind and loving world. I want to see a world where children do not awaken to bombs exploding in the night or dive beneath their beds (if they have one) to avoid being beaten.

I want to live in a world where everyone knows, they matter. Where everyone feels their own power to express themselves in ways that create a world of awe and wonder. A world where being kind to one another trumps doing whatever it takes to make sure no one gets me before I get them.

I want to live in a world where Christmas wishlists are no longer needed because no one is that far from home they cannot reach out to touch and be touched by the one’s they love.

And until that happens, I will continue to do whatever I can to create a world where I am free to give my all to ensure that where ever I am, whatever I’m doing, I am the change I want to see in the world.

It’s the least I can do to ensure that the Jennie Keeran’s of the world and all those who work so hard to make a difference know, they’re not alone. I may not be able to do all that they do, but I sure can lend a hand and do my most to be part of the magic they create when they turn up and ask me to say, “Yes!”

Because, while there may not be a Santa Claus, we can all do our part to light up the dark by turning up and letting the brilliance of our hearts shine for all the world to see.

Namaste.

Not having an answer to homelessness isn’t good enough

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She is walking towards me deep in conversation with another woman. She is animated. Expressive. Her whole body engaged in her conversation. It is a warm October afternoon but she is dressed for colder weather. Toque. Mitts. Big heavy winter jacket. Blue with a fake fur collar. Khaki pants tucked into the tops of laced up black walking boots, the kind you’d picture if someone said, “your mother wears army boots,” in an attempt to dis you.

As we pass she looks at me. I smile. She stops. Calls out. “Hi! How are you? Haven’t seen you in awhile.” She darts between two passers-by and comes to a full stop in front of me. “Where do I know you from?” Before I can answer she blurts out her response. “The Women’s Centre! That’s where.”

I start to correct her. I’m not sure I know her but perhaps it was the shelter where I used to work, but her words keep rattling out towards me like a woodpecker digging into bark. “You still there? I sure hope so. You stood out. You always do. It’s why I noticed you on the street.”

Again I attempt to correct her, to tell her I don’t think we’ve met and then I let it go. Sometimes, people just want to be heard.

She tells me about her husband. ‘The abusive bastard’. They put him in the ground three years ago. That’s how she says it. Put him in the ground. I wasn’t there. No f*cking way, and her expletive is loud enough it startles someone walking by. They skirt our little tableau where we stand at the corner of the avenue where the C-train rumbles by.

She tells me the story of how he kept her locked up on 149 acres. Sixteen years I suffered, she says. How she’s lost a son to suicide. Hung himself. Why would he do that? she asks.

I hope she doesn’t expect an answer from me. I don’t have one.

She’s lost another to cancer and the third, well, the good for nothing, and again she inserts a loud expletive, is in jail. Just like his father. She says. And she shakes her head making her salt and pepper curls bob up and down. “How come I couldn’t do nothing good in the world?” she asks. “Tell me that? How come?”

I am grateful she keeps on talking without waiting for an answer. I don’t have one.

She shares more of her story. Dates. Places. Names. They are written on her memory, streaming out in a continuous tide of re-telling. She animates her conversation. Bounces from one spot to another in front of me. One moment up close, almost whispering in my ear, the next stepping far back. “You stay there,” she says. And I wonder, does she mean me or is the statement part of her story.

She talks about the Catholic school she attended as a child. The abuse. The nuns. The priests. She points to two tall brick buildings down the avenue from where we stand. “Big as those,” she says. “I had to walk in and tell them I was there to demand an apology for my sister. She was one pound when she was born. You could hold her in the palm of your hand.” And she cups one hand holding it out towards me like a child begging for alms. “She was that little. I had to protect her. I had to get her away from them.”

She breathes and I look into her eyes and say, “It sounds like life was very hard for you.”

“You don’t f*cking know the half of it,” she sputters and continues on with her story. Jumping from her sister to one of her other 10 siblings. “Only 8 of us survived the first years of our lives,” she says. “There just wasn’t enough to go around.”

“I seen my sister just before she died,” she says. And she moves in real close to my right ear and whispers. “I walked up to her bed, she was so sick, so close to dying, and I said, ‘Terry’, real soft like. She knew it was me. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew it was me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. It is all I can think of to offer her in way of comfort.

“Nah. She’s better off dead.” And she continues on re-telling stories of her life. A 1963 GrandAm she once owned. A shotgun that belonged to her husband that he used to threaten her with until she gave it, along with his other 20 guns, to the police.

“He told them he was a collector. Insisted they give them back. I got away though. Took the bus to Edmonton. I’m a registered LPN. I’m not stupid you know. They tell me I’m bipolar. F*cking baztards. What do they know? I’m 74. Of course I have moods.”

Another C-train rolls by and I know I have to go. Ellie the wonder pooch is waiting for me at home. She’ll be anxious for her dinner.

“Hey! I’m glad I saw you,” she says. “You listen good but you gotta speak up good too. For others. Will you do that for me? Speak up? Get us some justice? I got a place now but ya’ know, there’s so many who don’t. Will you make sure they get a chance?”

“I’ll do my best,” I tell her.

And we part and move in our separate directions and I carry her story with me. I wonder how she got so lost. How life could have been so difficult and still she clings to it, fights for it, and others.

And I wonder, what is the best for someone who’s needs are so complex, whose mental health is so fragile that they would reach out to a relative stranger and tell them their story standing on a street corner? How can my best do anything to offset the demands of a life lived on the edges?

And I know, Not having an answer to homelessness and abuse and lack of support for mental health issues isn’t good enough anymore. We can’t keep pushing the problem along, sweeping it into shelters or someone else’s backyard. We’ve got to speak up, give voice, stand up for those who have been beaten down so far they no longer have the strength to do it alone. We gotta do it together. All of us.

 

 

 

Two people standing heart to heart

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He is sitting on a bench outside of the offices of an organization that works with people with mental health issues.  I am walking past to a meeting further down the avenue.

He sees me. Stares. Gives me a little smile.

I smile back.

He says, “Hi! How are you?”

I stop in front of him, give him my attention. “I’m great. How are you? I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

He pauses before replaying. As if trying to remember, or place me, or see if he actually knows me. He remembers.  “At least two years,” he says. “I can’t remember your name. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I forget yours too. I’m Louise.”

“Oh right. I remember. I’m Jack.”  (not his real name)

“Nice to see you Jack. It has been awhile. How are you doing?”

He shrugs his shoulders, takes a puff on the cigarette he’s been holding in one hand. He’s tall and gangly. Mid-forties. He sits with his body entangled, one leg over the other, the foot bouncing in constant motion. His body doesn’t move as much as it vibrates in a constant hum of nervous energy flowing.

“You still work there?”

I know him from the shelter where I used to work. I tell him I’ve been gone for almost two years.

He laughs. “Me too. And I’ll never go back. I’m on a life bar. Stupid really. I couldn’t control myself. Someone got fed up with me. Now I’m gone.”

“That’s too bad,” I say.

“No it’s not,” he replies. “I’ve got my own place now. It’s hard. But I’m managing. I got support and I don’t want to go back. But it’s hard.”

“How is it hard?” I ask him.

His body stills for a moment and his eyes focus on me intently.

“I remember. You were always interested in what was really going on. You cared.”

I’m not sure what to say. I sit down beside him and ask again. “How is it hard?”

“The living day-to-day,” he says. “The remembering to do what I gotta do. I come here,” and he waves his cigarette at the building behind us, “because they get me. They help.”

“I’m glad they’re here for you.” I tell him.

“It’s been nice chatting with you,” he says.

He is dismissing me. “It’s been nice chatting with you too. Can I give you a hug?” I ask as I stand up.

He looks surprised. Nervous. Scared.

“Really?”

“Well, I’d like to but only if you want one,” I tell him.

He laughs. “People don’t hug me,” he says. “I scare them.”

I smile. “Would you like a hug?”

His leg that is crossed over the other bounces up and down and then stops. He unwinds his body and stands up. Leans over to put his arms around my shoulders. Lightly, like a willow tree folding over so its branches can kiss the earth. It is a quick hug. A squeeze. His arms are gone as quickly as they touch my shoulders.

“I liked that. Thanks. I gotta go now.” And he carefully butts out his cigarette, tucking the saved bit into the palm of his hand. He waves one hand and returns into the building behind us.

I continue on my way to my meeting, smiling as I walk.

A chance encounter. A brief moment of conversation. A smile. A hug. Two people standing heart to heart. A human connection.

I like that. I carry it with me throughout my day.

 

Where nightmares end

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It stormed last night. Thunder rumbled across the sky. Lightning bolts streaked through the night, searing the dark. The wind howled. The trees moaned and I lay in my bed, warm and dry, Ellie snoring on her mat at the foot of the bed and Marley curled up beside me.

I love storms. I love their fierce energy cascading from the sky, rippling across the earth. I love the wind and the rain and the trees bowing and the wind chime tinkling madly in the back yard. I love the sound of the rain pattering on the roof, the water splashing in puddles and dripping from the eaves.

And I love  listening to the storm from inside the safety and warmth of my home.

I am grateful for the roof over my head. I am grateful we live on higher ground, that our foundation is secure, our roof strong. I am grateful for the stove light that glimmers in the dark from the kitchen, the candles ready just in case, the flashlight strategically placed on my bedside table – just in case.

I am grateful I can take precautions, just in case.

I have the resources, the resilience and the necessary strength to take care of myself, just in case.

There was a time…

I was thinking of those times yesterday as I listened to a group of co-workers talk about ‘harm reduction’ — the art of maximizing safety even when someone is engaged in unsafe and risky behaviours.

It’s part of Housing First which forms the foundation of Calgary’s 10 Year Plan to End Homelessness. The first step in any housing first model is to get someone into housing, and provide them the prerequisite supports to enhance well-being.

The premise is, you can’t look at options, you can’t see possibilities, you can’t feel safe, when your life is one unstable step after another.

It’s true. You can’t.

Having worked in a shelter for almost six years, no matter how good the service, no matter how well-intentioned the supports, when homelessness sits heavily on your shoulders, believing in the possibility of change, knowing there’s hope for more is a constant battle of reality versus resignation. Life is just too hard, too heavy, too confusing to conceive of your capacity to change.

I know. When I was mired in the darkness of an abusive relationship, when my home was gone, my belongings stored precariously, my family ties shredded, I couldn’t, didn’t, wouldn’t believe there was anything I could do to make it different. It took everything I had to pretend everyday that I was coping with the uncertainty and trauma of what was happening in my life. How could I create change? How could I believe I had the capacity to change my path when I believed I was the one who had destroyed my life in the first place? How could I do anything differently when to do something different meant I was lost? How could I find courage in the fear driving me deeper and deeper into the dark?

I told myself I couldn’t. I told myself there was nothing else I could do. I told myself, this is all there is. This is where I belong. This is what I deserve. This fear, confusion, abuse. This constant uncertainty. This continuous instability would never change. It couldn’t. Because I didn’t deserve anything else. I was 100% responsible for what was happening in my life — and I was powerless to change it.

Homelessness begets helplessness. Losing everything leads to losing yourself. It opens the door to nothing but, more of the same. In the downward spiral of feeling helpless to stop the storm rumbling through your life, sweeping away everything you once held onto or believed would keep you safe, you stand exposed to the harsh and bitter winds of hopelessness. And in that place, even when the shelter provides a roof over your head, even when you know there are three meals to count on every day. Even when you have a bed to sleep in, a chair to sit on, a locker to store your meagre belongings in, others to talk to in a community of people with your shared experience, you never feel safe. you never feel at home, because in being given everything you need to survive, you still do not have the one thing that will lead you home — a place to call your own. A place where you can lock the door, make yourself a cup of tea, butter a slice of toast and dream.

When I was homeless and life stormed all around me, darkness was my companion. In the dark, I could pretend I couldn’t see what was happening. In the dark, I didn’t dream of the storm ending, because dreams always lead to awakening to the nightmare that was my life and I didn’t believe I’d ever awaken from the horror of what was happening. In my disbelief I held onto the dark where fear kept me still and held me fast in the hopelessness of its embrace.

It stormed last night and I awoke to thunder rumbling across the sky. In its passing I am left with the gift of today, the beauty of this place where I am grateful for the roof above my head. This place, where I know that to end homelessness we must first find a place to call home. A place where the nightmare of homelessness ends and dreams begin again.

What’s It Gonna’ Take?

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I got inspired yesterday. Really inspired.

I went with a couple of friends to  Onalea Gilbertson’s one woman play, Blanche: The bittersweet life of a wild prairie dame. Blanche is a one hour play Onalea wrote and produced as a tribute to her grandmother, Blanche Gilbertson who passed away shortly after Onalea completed her first draft. Performing Blanche as part of this year’s High Performance Rodeo (HPR)  is a dream come true for Onalea. In the five year’s I’ve known her, she’s always dreamt of bringing Blanche to the HPR stage. And now, after much hard work, commitment and perseverance, she’s done it. She’s shared the story of her grandmother here in her hometown. Through original songs she wrote, recordings of her interviews with Blanche, photos and video footage from her grandmother’s attic, Blanche came to life on the Rodeo stage. It was inspiring, entertaining and heart-warming.

And it was a reminder — That’s how dreams come true.

I first met Onalea when I worked at the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre. I’d started an art program and we were partnering with the City of Calgary in the This Is My City project. Onalea walked into my office one day and said, “I want to start a singing group.” It seemed reasonable. There’s a lot of unsung talent at a homeless shelter. Many clients play instruments, write music, sing. Creating space for music to happen was another opportunity to connect people to their creative core. And Onalea’s resume as an actor, singer, performer, writer, poet, unsung hero is pretty vast. Why not do whatever possible to help make it happen?

And happen it did. Over the next year, Onalea’s regular Monday night appearances would become the highlight of many people’s weeks. In the end, The DI Singers would become a weekly staple at the shelter. A place where anyone, from clients, staff and people from the community could come to sing and share in their love of music. Eventually, after a lot of hard work, organizing, begging, borrowing and pleading for the resources to make it all happen, Onalea and the DI Singers would perform the world premiere of   Two Bit Oper Eh! Shun as part of This Is My City and HPR 2010.

Two years later, after more hard work, commitment, perseverance and a whole lot of numbers juggling to make the finances work, Onalea would remount Two Bit as, Requiem for a Lost Girl at the New York Musical Theatre Festival in July 2012. Two clients from the DI would fly to New York along with other performers from the original production to be part of the off-broadway debut of the play.

That’s how dreams come true.

Yesterday, as I sat over a late lunch with Onalea after the performance, I was once again reminded of how special this one woman force of nature is. Beautiful. Talented. Heartfelt and heart-driven, Onalea does not give up. From scrambling to make ends meet on a show by show basis, to work-shopping every line and note of music, to making sure every performer on stage with her is paid fairly, Onalea never gives up on her dream of creating music, being a performer and igniting the imaginations of everyone she comes in contact with. It doesn’t matter how high the obstacle, how wide the gap, Onalea will do whatever it takes to get her over the next hurdle, get herself across the divide that separates her from her dream.

Because, that’s how dreams come true.

They don’t just appear, fully formed, all coloured in and ready to roll out upon the stage of life. Dreams are breathed into existence, moment by moment, step by step. They take care, nurturing, effort, blood, sweat and tears. They take vision and commitment, determination and perseverance. Making dreams come true takes heart.

And Onalea is a woman of great heart.

I was blessed yesterday. I got to see and hear and witness the story of Onalea’s 93 year-old grandmother told through the eyes of her granddaughter who loved her dearly. I got to hear the voice of Blanche recall tales of her life. I got to hear her laugh, see the photos and watch the home movies she’d taken long ago when she was young and life was an adventure waiting to unfold. Because of Onalea’s dream, I got to meet a woman I’ve never met, who, like her granddaughter was filled with a love of life bigger than a prairie sky.

And I got to be part of witnessing Onalea’s dream come true.

What a gift.

And in that gift is the reminder of what it takes to live the life of my dreams. It isn’t about wishin’ and hopin’. It’s all about living large, about taking risks, putting myself out there and living it up for all I’m worth.

I’ve got a dream. Do you? What’s it gonna take to make your dream come true?

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For Ticket Information on Blanche: The bittersweet life of a wild prairie dame please click HERE. Blanche runs until February 26 at the Lunchbox Theatre in Calgary.

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Today’s everyday poem is posted over at A Poetry Affair. Do drop in for a visit!  I’d love to see you there.

Imagine what can be!

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Someone asked me recently why it was I didn’t seem to get too flustered, upset or angry by ‘things’. Things being the inequities in the world, the suffering of others, the crisis that happen every day when working in the poverty/homeless sector.

See, I’m back in the sector that inspired the start of this blog. Not working for a front line agency this time, but for the Calgary Homeless Foundation. And I love it.

I’m on a three-day a week contract with the Foundation, and my heart isn’t heavy. It’s happy.

Go figure.

I missed the work. Which sounds somewhat bizarre — how can I miss working with those who have nothing?

Mostly, as I told the person who asked the question, because I don’t see ‘the nothing’. I see the amazing power of the human spirit, its will to survive, to wake up every morning and take a step and another, and another, no matter what.

We are born to live.

And in this sector, you see it everyday. No matter the circumstances of their lives, people will do whatever it takes to live.

It’s inspiring.

My work with CHF is primarily around community engagement. Connecting emergency responders, community associations, and agencies contracted by the Foundation to facilitate good relationship.

It’s work I love. It’s work I believe is vital in our quest to ‘end homelessness’, to change the direction of people streaming to the streets back home, to affect change in policy and discourse around this ‘thing’ few understand but have many opinions about why it should be kept in someone else’s neighbourhood.

Calgary has a 10 year plan to end homelessness. And yes, the ideal of ‘no more people being homeless on our streets’ is lofty. And yes, the likelihood of it happening is slim. In fact, since the first days of the plan where the vision painted was our streets free of those who had no place to call home, the goal has shifted to recognize that while we can’t prevent everyone from falling on the streets, we can ensure they don’t stay there too long. We can ensure we have the facilities and the resources to provide them a path back home — quickly — before the inequities and despair of being homeless settle into someone’s soul and tear away all hope of ever finding their way back home.

Because that’s the thing about homelessness. Just as the police can’t stop every crime from happening, before it happens, or accidents on our roadways from occurring, before they occur, they can put safeguards in to help prevent crime and accidents. And, should something go wrong, they can get to the scene quickly and ensure life flows onwards again without too much mayhem or angst ensuing from the events that occurred.

In homelessness, we can put safeguards in to plug people into the right resources and opportunities to prevent homelessness, but we can’t always stop their fall. And yet, should they fall, we need to get them out of shelters as quickly as we can.

Shelter life is hard. It’s not about ‘the shelter’. It’s about the life. it’s about the tearing away of your sense of worth, value, pride. It’s about losing your autonomy, independence, personal space.

Living in a community of impoverished people, no matter how nice the shelter is, drains you of your sense of understanding of who you are. We all want to believe we’re doing our best, and if our best has lead us to a shelter door, than really, what else can we do?

And so, we give up hope to find our balance in the crazy-upside down world called ‘homelessness’.

I’m back working in the sector I love. I am grateful.

Grateful there are so many people in this city committed to making a difference to ensure every Calgarian has the opportunity to plug into the resources they need, no matter where they’re at, to find their direction home.

I am grateful.

As I told the person who asked me why I didn’t seem to get upset,I like to focus on creating more of what I want in my life, more of what I want to see in the world. I want to live in a world of compassion and kindness. Getting upset by what is prevents me from seeing what can be when I let go of my judgements around why it is the way it is and breathe into the possibilities of what can be.

I believe miracles happen, everywhere, everyday. To create lasting change in the world, I must begin with with me, with changing my attitude, my judgements, criticisms and beliefs around what is ‘impossible’ to the limitless possibilities of what can be in this world when I become the change I want to see in the world.

Namaste.

Give a little bit, or a lot, and make a difference

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We all have something to give. To share. To bestow.

And still, we hesitate. We step back from the brink of stepping beyond our comfort zones and say, not my job. Not my responsibility. Not me.

I don’t have time. It’s too scary. I’ll be in the way. Nobody wants what I have to share.

And yet, no matter our excuses, our rationalizations, our inner conflict, we all have something to give.

Three years ago, a client at the shelter where I used to work was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He had been a participant in the arts program I started and over the course of three years, had fallen in love with photography. “It’s my retirement plan,” he’d tell me when he excitedly showed me another one of his photos — and they really were spectacular.

James Bannerman had an eye. For composition. For colour. For angles. For light.

What he didn’t have was a lot of human connections. He tended to keep to himself. Seldom causing trouble. Always being on his own. He’d given up drinking years ago. “It caused me too much trouble,” he told me. But he never recovered from the other wounds, the deep soul pain he didn’t have words to express.

But he was happy. He was living a simple life, giving back whenever he could. Volunteering. Giving people his photos. Participating in our art shows. And then, James  received the diagnosis he never expected and everything changed. “I never thought it would be stomach cancer that got me,” he told me one day when I went to see him during his many hospitalizations after the diagnosis. An avid smoker, James thought if anything it would be lung cancer. “I can beat this,” he said. “I know I can.”

But he didn’t. Beat it. Less than nine months after the diagnosis James passed away quietly at a hospice.

I was sitting beside him, holding his hand. It was all I could do for this man who had wanted to live his life quietly, picking up bottles, working temp shovelling snow in winter, mowing lawns and tending gardens in summer and, at all times, using his camera to express the beauty he saw everywhere in the world around him.

James didn’t need words to express himself. He had his eyes and his capacity to capture magical moments everywhere.

I hadn’t meant to be there when he passed over. I had spent the final hours with him, waiting for the hospice van to come and get him. When he’d left I’d said my good-byes. It wasn’t until that evening, a cold, cold December night that I wondered, is anyone with him? Usually, in these instances, a frontline staff or member of the medical team from the homeless shelter where I worked would be with a client. I didn’t want to interfere, but, I was worried when I got home from work that possibly no one had been able to drive to the hospice they’d taken James to 45 minutes south of the city. So I called to check on him and when I found out he was alone and, as the nurse said on the phone, “wouldn’t last through the night”, I decided to drive out to the hospice and sit with him through the night. James was afraid of dying and I didn’t want him to go through it alone.

For four hours I sat quietly by his bedside, holding one of his thin, fragile hands. The cancer had taken its toll and this once strong man with weathered hands that worked tirelessly to lift and carry were too heavy for his arms to lift anymore. I chatted with the nurses when they came in to check on us and to ensure James was comfortable. He was mostly unconscious and laid quietly on the bed. I shared stories with them, of James and the shelter and his life as I knew it. And then, shortly after midnight on December 8, 2009, James took in his last rattling gasp of breath, and never let it out.

I sat for a few moments waiting for an exhalation, but it never came.

James was gone.

Sitting with James as he passed over was a profoundly privileged moment. It wasn’t something I expected to do. In my capacity as Director of PR and Volunteer Services at the shelter, it wasn’t something I ‘should’ have been doing.

But I could. And so I did. And in the giving, I was made different.

In the giving, my eyes opened to the sanctity and sacredness of life, every human life and the power we hold as individuals to connect, cherish and celebrate each other.

Give a little bit. Give a lot. Give what you can.

And always give.

In giving we receive.

I thought of this story of James when I saw this video on a friend’s Facebook wall.

Supertramp’s — Give a Little Bit.

The difference when I stop, look and listen

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I am standing by the Navel Orange bin, focused on picking just the right ones when I feel someone watching me. I look up and see a man, walking towards me, his eyes focused intently on my face. I recognize him as he approaches. Smile and give him a wave.

“I know you,” he says, the rubber stopper on the bottom of his multi-coloured metallic cane making a soft thump as he plants himself in beside me. “Why do I know you?”

I know him from the homeless shelter where I used to work.

In a public place like a grocery store, it’s not always caring of the other to tell them that.

“I was the spokesperson for the DI (the street name for the shelter where I used to work),” I tell him. “I was on television a lot. Maybe you recognize my face from there?”

He gives his head a quick shake from side to side. Then nods it up and down. “Yeah. That’s why I remember you. You were one of the nice ones.” He pauses, lifts his cane and thumps it on the ground. Not loudly. Just a gentle statement of fact to punctuate his words. “I didn’t like it there. Who could? Full of drunks and drug addicts. And the staff…”

He looks away.

“Glad I’m out of there now.” He finishes his statement and looks me in the eyes. “I’m gone you know.”

“So am I,” I tell him. “How are you doing?”

And he rushes into a story about an accident that broke his hip. A two month hospital stay. A landlord who ripped him off and a host of other sad events that have brought him down.

And  I listen. It is all I do. Listen. Deeply.

It is what he needs. Someone to listen to him. To give him space to give voice to his pain, his fears, his sorrow. And, his possibilities.

“I worked construction you know,” he tells me. “That’s over with now. But I can cook. Got a friend who’s got a friend who owns a restaurant that’s just opening up. Gonna go submit my resume. You could come visit if you want.” And he gives me the approximate location of the restaurant. “I can’t remember the name. But I’m sure you can’t miss it. It’s the pub right beside the gas station.”

I tell him that I’ll definitely drop by sometime over the next few weeks. Check if he got the job. See how he’s doing.

“What I really need is better housing,” he says. “Someplace where I’m not sharing space with others. I talked to Calgary Housing but their wait list is too long.”

“Have you spoken to the Homeless Foundation?” I ask.

“What’s that?”

And I explain about their housing programs and find a piece of paper and write down their number and pass it to him.

He’s excited. Another path to explore. Another possibility opening up.

And we part and I am grateful for our encounter. He has reminded me of the importance of seeing people. Of honouring the human being through creating space for story-telling to happen, of listening to the stories that are shared with an open mind and loving heart and a belief in the sacredness of the truths that are revealed when we take time to see and listen to the story-tellers.

Thank you John. You made a difference yesterday by giving me the gift of listening on purpose.