I'm up before the dawn. I drive down the hill to the gym and
swim
a mile alternating butterfly, freestyle and breaststroke easily but at
a fast pace. Out in the wine country the harvest colors are changing:
from shades of only green to yellows, pastel purples, mahogany, deep
reds, and browns in the clean valley air, the usual photographer's
dream come true. It's the kind of morning when anything can happen. And
probably will.
On my way to work I stop at a local Starbucks for a muffin and a tall
caffé latté the way I like it: "skinny"
(non-fat), foamless, extra hot. Breakfast of champions. Breakfast in
America.
Then I see the homeless man. I watch him through the plate glass window
as the girl behind the counter steams my milk. He's sitting outside in
the plaza on the edge of a flower box. I've seen him there before. But
I've never seen what he looks like. He always wears a filthy dirty
parka with the hood up obscuring his face no matter what the weather.
I've seen his hands, however. They're blackened with ingrained grime.
They haven't held a cake of soap in ages.
Oddly I wonder "Doesn't his skin itch? How can his toes stand not being
near warm water?". I also notice I'm scared of him and I have no idea
where the fear comes from. Is he mentally ill? Is he violent?
And then I notice something else really odd which suddenly
catapults me into another level of wakefulness.
I've got breakfast. The homeless man has none.
I've stepped around homeless people
sleeping
on sidewalks. I've ignored panhandlers jangling paper cups of change in
my face. I've looked away from disheveled men holding ripped cardboard
signs saying "Vietnam veteran - will work for food.". And suddenly I'm
totally confronted with something which for the first time in my life
shows up as truly bizarre.
This is America. This is the land of the free and the home of the
brave. Yet the homeless man has no breakfast in America.
Now don't get me wrong. I love America. I'm an immigrant
to these shores. I assert to truly appreciate America you have to come
here from somewhere else. Often I'm challenged when I wax lyrical how
great this country is. They'll say to me "How can you say this is a
great country? Look what a bad job the president is doing
in Iraq.".
And I'll say "You may be right about Iraq. You may be wrong. But what
you don't get is you're free to criticize the president in
America and no one's going to come and take you away in the middle of
the night without an arrest warrant because of your anti-government
opinion.".
I know what I'm talking about. I'm not just a guy in a
diner about this. I grew up in South Africa in the halcyon
days of apartheid when such occurrences were routine.
I'll say "Here in America you're free to speak.". And they just look at
me, puzzled. They've had that freedom for so long they take it for
granted now. They have no clue what a privilege and a gift it is.
So when I say it's bizarre the homeless man has no breakfast in
America, I'm not talking about America the nation nor about America the
political and socio-economic entity. I'm talking about America the
space I am. I'm talking about America the context for my
life. I'm not blaming America the country or America
the system. America the country, America the system is the way it is,
whatever it is. It is I who's responsible for my
experience of the homeless man having no breakfast in America. And it
shocks me to see I have no generosity toward him.
I take my caffé latté with me out onto the
plaza and I tentatively walk up to him. There's that fear
again ... where does it come from? Will he yell at me?
Will he insult me? This is dumb. What am I getting myself into?
Yama yama yama ...
When I'm close enough to him for him to realize I'm approaching him, he
looks up. For the first time I see his face. And I'm totally blown
away by what I see. What was I expecting? An old
man? A deeply lined visage? No teeth? Wild bloodshot eyes? It's none of
the above. He has the face of a child! It seems to me he
couldn't even be twenty years old. He's smiling at me.
He's totally at ease. I'm the awkward one.
The man in the filthy dirty parka, the homeless man, the man with no
breakfast is creating the space for me to be at
ease around him ...
I gather my composure. "Hello!" I say. "Would you like something to
eat?". And he says, simply, "Sure.". And he's smiling as a
communication. He's not patronizing me. He didn't expect my offer and
he certainly didn't ask for it. He just smiles to acknowledge my
greeting and my offer and my presence. The homeless man may not be many
things, at least in my opinion. But one thing he is for sure, and that
is he's clear.
I go back into Starbucks and I order him something to eat that looks
healthy. There's a few sandwich items with chicken, lettuce and tomato
on nice bread which I gravitate towards, forgoing the stodgy pastry
stuff. And as I pay for it, as I give the girl at the cash register my
money, I feel a strange new sensation. Ordinarily my money seems to be
doing everything it can possibly do to stay in my wallet. But
this money, this money which buys breakfast in
America for the homeless man, is doing everything it can
possibly do to get out of my wallet and be spent. And for the first
time in my life, without any artificiality, without any added opinion,
without any interpretation, without any conceptual or intellectual
framework, I get the possibility of being generous.
Back out in the plaza I say to him (still inexplicably tentatively)
"Here. Have breakfast.". He stands up and takes the food. He doesn't
sniff at it or disdain it which would demean me. He doesn't bow in
appreciation which would demean him. He just says an appropriate "Thank
You!", smiles a genuine smile, and then his face disappears again
inside the filthy dirty parka as he sits back down on the flower box,
and I walk away with my caffé latté back to
my car, not staying to watch him eat, my nostrils distinguishing both
the aromas of freshly brewed coffee and the chlorine still lingering in
my hair.
We're trapped in a world of money. Both me and the homeless man. If
you've not got enough money, you're trapped. If you've got lots of
money, you're trapped. We're trapped largely because we've forgotten
money is merely a symbol of exchange to which we ascribe value and
agreement yet which has no intrinsic value nor agreement in and of
itself.
When I get I'm trapped in a world of money, when I get I'll
always be trapped in a world of money whether I've not got
enough of it or whether I've got lots of it, then
paradoxically
I'm free in a world of money. When I'm free in a world of money, all
there is to do is to take responsibility for my experience of money,
and to make choices. I can make less money. I can make more money. I'm
responsible for my experience of money. That doesn't mean I'm to
blame for my money situation, whatever it is. Neither does
it mean my money situation, whatever it is, is my fault. It
simply means I'm responsible for my experience of money and I'm free to
make choices which impact my experience of money.
When I get that, I get the possibility of being generous. And the
homeless man gets breakfast in America.
