To Us - Aiming for Sixty

It's the first of Spring.

And according to the metaphor of my life as one long hour, I'm about to enter the final minute.

Before I go on, don't put a grim spin on this. Another hour lies ahead, and I fully intend to enter it. I don't really expect I'll see that second hour through – another fifteen minutes, maybe half an hour might be nice.
Would I even want to see that next hour through, and live to be 120? Yeah, probably. I used to not think my 50's would be much of anything, but look at me now! I'll take what I can get, and be glad for it.

But the point is – this isn't any depressed or desperate looking toward death. That figure will make its entrance in its own time, and I'll hope to clasp its hand with some dignity and an abiding sense of gratitude.

Yes, I'm excited about nearing 60. And I like the metaphor of the hour, each minute one year – the sweep of the second hand around the dial, shadowing the Earth's spinning journey around the Sun, hitting that 3, representing March, birthday to birthday, equinox to equinox.

And now I find myself almost at the hour mark, when the second hand will align with the hand whose one sweep represents the entirety of my life so far. What a long hour it's been, but how quickly those minutes are ticked off.

I had an interesting observation: that I moved so often during the first half of my hour. The first quarter of my life took me from Detroit, to New York, to Berlin, back to New York again, and saw me to the start of my life away from home, off to boarding school at Exeter.

That second quarter sweep saw me through Exeter, then to Harvard and Cambridge, and then a bunch of shorter stops, many lasting less than a minute, going by my hour metaphor: Atlanta, San Francisco, Montreal, let's not forget Mississippi! Norfolk, Detroit and Rochester in small doses. Kansas City for almost a full minute, then Seaside, Oregon for almost another. Then on to Seattle. My regret is not having traded some of those roads of North America for pathways through Africa and Asia and South America. Even Europe I've only experienced in brief nibbles. (but there's still next hour).

But look how I've slowed. The entire last half hour in two cities! More than 10 minutes in Seattle, and now, almost twenty in Toronto! Amazing. Never would've thunk it!

But wait a minute. Just that. A minute to go before the hour is closed. One more brilliant dash around the sun before summing up. And what'll I do with it. A minute goes by so quickly. And – as though to compensate – each is denser, richer, fatter and more over-layered with meaning, and with intent that spreads in every direction.

I'm intoxicated by this hour, by the quickening spin of the dial, the excitement of this symbolic minute that, in reality, means no more than any other. I sense that as the hands come around, to meet in some unbelieving supplication, they will generate some vibration that will shatter something in me that has waited all this while. Something will finally and fully ripen. Something will truly come full circle. Maybe I do mean some kind of dying, after all; but if so, it will be the birthing that matters, because even the last minute leads to the next.

My friend Gerry begins his 60th spin today. Mine starts just next week. Zik's will follow. And Debbie and Donna's later this summer. And Thomps, and Greg, and Lucie, and John, Lauren, Rachel and Tom, Joan, Faith and so many others, will be a little ahead or a little behind. The sky is full of us Sun Spinners. Going round and round, coming full circle, tying up loose ends and discovering what's next.

Happy Birthdays to Us All!

Lois

Today, I learned of the death, on Saturday, 9 March 2013, of Lois, a former client, at the age of fifty-five. Lois was probably the most difficult person I ever housed. She was a practicing addict and alcoholic who turned tricks to supplement the disability payments she burned through. She was a survivor of multiple traumas, including the loss of one husband in a fire and a second to a heroin overdose, as well as the loss of a seven year old son. And she suffered from acute cognitive impairment and other mental/emotional health issues which, due to her personality and lifestyle, were not thoroughly diagnosed and often went untreated. Judy, a colleague who worked in a Community Health Centre, asked me to work with Lois after watching her tear through one housing worker after another, and determining that she might well be beyond help.

During the nine months or so that we worked together, Lois was given to spontaneous outbursts of venomous, verbal abuse and other forms of gross behavioral inappropriateness. She would forget appointments, or decide in the middle of a meeting that she had to go and get a drink. I was told that once, during an interview for housing, she kept excusing herself to use the washroom, where she progressively drank herself to a staggering intoxication, leading to the housing offer being withdrawn. With another worker, while on the way to another interview, she jumped out of the van at a stoplight and couldn't be found for the rest of the day. Because of such antics, I knew that preparing Lois for interviews would be a slow process.

There are very limited housing options for those with concurrent disorders (having both an addiction and mental illness), and Lois added to that package a demand for independence of movement and freedom of companionship. Other behavioral characteristics that would make housing in any group setting challenging were her propensity to lose her own belongings, in particular, her keys, and the matching tendency to pick up interesting and attractive items left around by others – a trait that exposed her to frequent accusations of theft. Opportunities for appropriate housing couldn't be wasted.

But the slow pace of application and preparation infuriated Lois. Despite her dysfunctions, she was very bright, articulate, had a great memory that clicked in and out, and was quick to take offense at any suggestion that she was in any way incapable. She was full of accusations that no one – I, in particular – was willing to stick with her and help her. And so she was often intoxicated when she arrived for our meetings, occasionally dismissed me in a screaming tirade, or she simply didn't show up.

And yet, I loved working with her. Despite the miseries of which she so regularly complained, Lois was full of life, and of the joy of life. She enjoyed people and wasn't shy about speaking her mind, so a major challenge involved managing her interactions with others when we travelled together, especially in the confines of a bus or streetcar. One minute she might be complimenting a woman on her handbag, in the next, describing the detached rectal lining that caused her great discomfort, and then screaming at the top of her lungs at an eaves-dropper who turned to her with a raised eyebrow.

Because she was so often consumed by a grievance or a mission, some distress or preoccupation, it could be extremely difficult to move forward with the task of finding housing. So early on, we two devised a tactic for working together, which was to take turns. Our meetings sometimes began with a twenty minute Lois rant about the injustice of being barred from yet another shelter, sometimes with a memory of better times that she wanted to share and relive, occassionally with a song, sung in a soft, childlike and lilting voice. When she was done, she's say, "Your turn." and we'd proceed to business, generally with no more substantial disturbances that day.

As is so often the case, much of Lois's disruptive behavior was both a way of dealing with her own anxiety and fear of disappointment in the housing game, and a rigorous test of workers, to see who would stick. As Lois became assured that I would stick, she revealed more of her fears to me, rather than act out on them. And gradually, a calmer and more focused Lois did emerge. And penultimately, she did obtain housing, in a low-rise apartment building where she had a self-contained unit, and her own key, with staff on hand to give support, and a level of tolerance for residents like her, who'd lived so many years in street culture.

I don't know how things ended for Lois. I continued in a support role for a couple of more months, before handing her on to another community worker she'd had the chance to bond with. Ultimately, that housing situation deteriorated and I learned that she'd been moved into housing in another part of town. I don't know what brought about her death this past Saturday, and perhaps I never will. One of her fears had been that she'd die on the street, and I hope that wasn't the case. It was obvious that her life didn't suddenly become rosy because for awhile she had a place that felt to her like home. But she was proud that she'd survived what had been a long passage of years without one.

I write this memorial of sorts because it brings me comfort. I was able to be a bit of a plus in the equation that was Lois's life. But Lois is also a powerful lesson to me. I started this essay by referring to Lois as probably the most difficult person I ever housed. But she was by no stretch the hardest person or the most difficult case I've worked with. It's simply that hers was the most challenging case that met with a small measure of success.

Lois was in the borderland between what the social net would consider a "workable" client and one who is "unworkable". Lois was bright. That helped to make her workable. She had a solid grasp and a vision of the concept of housing, and a strong, focused desire to obtain it. She had the ability, over time, to adapt her level of drug and alcohol consumption when circumstance demanded it, and to manage her fears. She liked other human beings enough, and was charming enough, that I and others wanted to work with her, enjoyed her, and so were able to stand by her, despite the abuse and sabotage. In some measure, the social safety net has expanded in recent years to take in the Loises. The "Housing First" philosophy – which basically means, provide shelter 1st, then worry about the addictions and all the rest – made housing Lois possible. But essentially, it was Lois who did most of the adjusting that made her housing possible. She found and climbed into the net. Despite being barred at one time or another from just about every shelter, drop in or Health Centre that she depended on, and despite her numerous arrests, and assaults of various kinds, both administered and received, Lois managed to negotiate and survive the system.

A key thing I learned from working with Lois, is that our system of care does not and cannot provide much help to the most dysfunctional and most mentally ill of the homeless. There are so many others who cannot make the adjustments she did, who cannot manage enough of the jumble of requirements that stand between them and access. So many others are so cognitively damaged, traumatized or otherwise disabled that they remain beyond the reach of programs like mine.

Housing resources are so strained – particularly supportive housing resources, that the numbers alone dictate against needs being met. Clients end up competing against one another for spots. Sometimes survival goes to the more needy client, but just as often it goes to the less needy, because the program can only deal with and support the lesser need. And it's a sad trick that, after housing someone like Lois, a worker feels he or she has done something exceptional. Because, after all, why should securing housing for anyone in need be exceptional?

Lois, you are missed. And you will be remembered.

I just received the following update from Judy, the worker who originally connected me with Lois:

"By the way, according to ..., she got into her building but couldn’t find her apartment key. So she lied down outside her door and fell asleep. I think staff found her body later and it was on Saturday. So according to that version of the story, she died inside where it was warm and dry, in her sleep."

Psycho Love

                 When I first heard of the show “Dexter” I was sure I would never watch it. Why would I watch a show about a serial killer? It was such an obscene idea, and clearly some producer’s inspiration for cashing in on the viewing public’s addiction to thrill-kill gore. But a few years later, after hearing the show lauded by a number of friends and co-workers, I gave the show a try and quickly pored through three seasons on Netflix. And yes, when I gave it some thought, I was troubled by that.

                Then, a couple of months ago, I started seeing these intriguing ads for a show called “The Following”. And now I’m watching it too. This time, it’s not merely a binge of indulgence, as with “Dexter”. Because “The Following” is new, I’m consuming it the way it was intended – one episode a week, giving me days of speculation and anticipation of the atrocities to come each Monday night.

                And yes, I’m still troubled.

                I remember that when “Bonnie & Clyde” and “Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid” and “Superfly” came out, there was always a bit of underground grumbling about the glorification of bank robbers and drug dealers and pimps. Generally, I dismissed such criticism as conservative, reactionary, status quo fear-mongering. I considered it the same sort of rhetoric as that which damned marijuana as an inevitable gateway to heroin addiction and ruin.

                But this psychopath thing.... It worries me. Will I stop watching? Remains to be seen. I’ve tired of “Dexter”. The device of making him out to be simply a regular guy trying to get along, while saddled with a psychotic condition he had no part in creating, is wearing thin. The qualifier, that he only kills those who deserve it, feeding into the vigilante soul that lies dormant in us all... well, it only goes so far. But, considering my default position, that I’d never succumb to watching such trash, I bought into it pretty seriously.

                I absolutely love “Breaking Bad”. And a big reason is that it unflinchingly traces a character’s descent from mere moral opportunism to ... well, evil. And I remain convinced that “The Wire” presented us with the best television EVER, because it was so raw and similarly unflinching in depicting an enduring reality of the drug wars as they play out in the economic wastelands of America.

                But “Dexter”? It treats its subject too much as a game; there’s so much winking at the audience for the cute absurdities it presents. Is it well written? Without a doubt. Is it gripping, in some ways even instructive? Yes, that too. But it’s also such an easy-natured, smoothed-over, sanitized presentation of psychopathy, that it winds up being much less clean than Breaking Bad and The Wire.

                And “The Following”? I hardly know what to say. It too is gripping and well-written. And in its probing into the cult mind, and its speculation about the roots of psychopathy, it sparks endless rumination about the nature of being human. But here the psycho-killer is elevated to the status of charismatic guru. He impresses, he charms, he seduces. And he’s brilliant. Far more than Dexter’s boy-next-door, he’s the killer rock star. He’s a Charles Manson with good teeth. Hannibal Lechter with sex appeal. The purported good guy here, who repeatedly invites the psycho’s minions to shoot him (to put him out of his misery), comes off as a determined but hapless stooge in comparison.

                So I’m bothered. Just as I am by the violent porn that is so accessible all over the web. And, on that note, will we next be presented with a cuddly, adorable, charismatic rapist as the subject of a television series? Or how about a pedophile?

                And yet...I’m watching. Or have been, until now. We’ve just decided to give up cable in our home. The shows I’m commenting on aren’t the main reason for that. The reasons have more to do with our priorities, and with the tempting distractions that television offers, in so many forms, and with our woeful lack of discipline, and with our vulnerability to seduction and desensitizing. And I can’t help but think...what of the kids?

Where Responsibility Lies

There’s a tension that lies beneath the surface in social work that is rarely discussed explicitly. But this selfsame tension has exploded in the political realm where it shapes a fundamental debate dividing left from right. It was certainly a pulsing, ever present theme of last Fall’s US presidential election. But even there, the issue wasn’t ever truly engaged in a way that wasn’t rhetorically divisive and thoroughly partisan.

I’m talking about the question of Responsibility, as in, who or what is responsible for Outcomes in our individual lives. And of course, our dominant political tribes come at this from opposite directions. Those on the conservative right state that success in life is the onus of the individual. And those on the liberal left (and in the spirit of full disclosure, I declare that I’m in this camp) say that social inequities and forces have so much to do with determining outcomes that they can overwhelm individual choice, determination and talent. The right says that government should stay out of things, and leave individuals to fully exercise their freedoms and thereby create their own success or failure. Those of us on the left proclaim the necessity of broad political and social activism, to counter inequities, to break oppressive patterns and to even the playing fields.

But this fundamental debate is carried out in a very polarizing way, each side refusing to acknowledge or consider the merits of the other. While the reality is that there is truth in both points of view. Neither perspective gives us the whole story. But the debate about Entitlements is carried on from these philosophical poles. Those in the lower socio-economic strata are portrayed as dependant leeches by one side, unwilling to work and weighing down the rest of us with their taking. The other side too often treats the same group as victims, but focuses much of its attention on the economically and politically powerful, who are assigned the role of victimizers.

On the left, there’s a reluctance to acknowledge any positive aspect of competitive capitalism, or any problem with entitlements. While on the right, there's an unwillingness to accept the flaws of an economic system that extends the bulk of its rewards to a slim minority, or to acknowledge the appropriateness of correcting the imbalances that keep so many mired in poverty, with all of its devastating side effects.

One source of the difficulty is the collapsing of “blame” with “responsibility”. The concept of “Not Blaming the Victim” has become an accepted ethical standard, but to the point where there is reluctance to even suggest that a victim bears responsibility for their recovery and ultimate health. But how can it be otherwise?

How can a person NOT be responsible for their health? How can a person NOT be responsible for supporting themselves, or at least contributing to the society that supports them? Responsibility is not blame. But in our zeal not to blame we often overlook or downplay the most important tool that any of us possesses, that being the responsibility to self and to others, to care for ourselves and to shape our own lives, to the extent that we are able. The right may err in overselling the potential to overcome all obstacles with work and determination. It’s a pseudo mythology that seeks to defend gross inequities as morally neutral, and it’s wrong. But the left may err even more seriously with its mythology of victimization that holds that oppressive conditions and social forces are insurmountable.

Isn't it true that achievement and progress in life are dependant on both the circumstances in which we find ourselves (or which we can find) and on our choices, our values, and our will – in short, our character?

It concerns me that so many of the young people I work with go on welfare, and that they remain there year after year, often with very little pressure or motivation to find work, or to prepare themselves to be able to work. Many of them are self-motivated, and struggle to find work, or training, or to complete their schooling. But many are not. And even those who are motivated struggle to find work, or employment training, or educational programs that actually take them somewhere. Many youth get onto disability, yet know that they are capable of work, and would like to have an occupation and make a contribution. But they have so few supports, or avenues that will lead to employment that they give up trying, and merely languish.

It concerns me is that, as a society, we’ve moved to improve living conditions, to improve schools and medical care, to increase access to treatment and legal services and equal opportunity – not enough, mind you. But we neglect and overlook the greatest and most effective generator of change, that being the motivation and determination of those who desire the change.

Probably the most negative and destructive indicator of this is how we are willing to divert so many resources into policing and incarceration, but allow our schools and training programs to deteriorate. The rightest creed of small government and individualism actively promotes this kind of neglect, though it reflects backward thinking: it’s so much more costly to allow individuals to fail, and then have to incarcerate them, then it is to educate and train them, and ensure that they can live decently.

But we leftists have it wrong too. We focus so much attention on what our clients don’t have, in the way of resources, support, housing, funding, physical and mental health care, etc., and on trying to acquire those things for them. And we focus far too little on what they already have, that being themselves, and their characters, and on building up those things. We're good at demanding that the rest of society come up with resources and solutions for those who are wanting. But we're not nearly so good at requesting, expecting, demanding action from those who have only themselves. It's understandable: we tend to think of those who have only themselves as poor, as impoverished, as having nothing. But isn't that a gross flaw in our thinking, to so demean the self?

As I write this, I have in mind a housing subsidy that has recently become available to some of the homeless in Toronto. It provides a supplement that can be applied to rent, making better quality housing available. It’s a very important thing. But, it’s provided for 5 years. And there’s nothing built into the subsidy for anything to happen to ensure that when those years have lapsed, the recipient no longer needs the subsidy. Why then is the subsidy automatically provided for five years? This type of funding doesn’t do much toward actually building and supporting a recipient’s capacity. It merely fits into the current paradigm of providing a slightly better and longer lasting band-aid to a problem that demands much deeper solutions.

I hope that left and right can come closer together in discussing these issues. Whether the right moves toward the middle ground or not – and it doesn’t seem likely that open-mindedness and reason hold sway there these days, we on the left can move. We can acknowledge that endless entitlements don’t work. We can work more actively at unleashing and supporting the will, the character and the sense of responsibility of those we work with. These tools are too vast and potent to waste.

Meditation Breakthrough

Earlier today I was about to go into a negotiation, and I was anxious and excited about it. My adrenalin was pumping and my mind constantly running different versions of the approaching scenario. I decided to meditate for a few minutes to settle myself. As I began scanning my body, surveying inch by inch and registering the sensations, I recognized that I was anticipating the calm I was after as much as I was experiencing the agitation of the moment. I was getting ahead of myself, like when I’m late getting somewhere and find myself leaning forward as I walk, trying to hurry along my progress.

One thing meditation had taught me already is that I can’t give my full attention to two things at once. Full attention may even be an impossibility. Certainly, focus to the depth that my Vipassana meditation training has brought me goes far beyond what’s expected in other areas of my life. In fact, most of modern life actually encourages partial attention, and with the advent of the cult of multi-tasking, the more partial the better.

But attention isn’t only quantitative, and the more focused it is, the more it shifts in quality and effect. So realizing that I was splitting my attention while I meditated, trying to feel myself into a desired future state at the same time that I was ostensibly experiencing the current state, was a significant realization. All the more so because anticipation goes against the very heart of my meditation training, which is all about being present.

“Don’t try to change your breathing,” Goenkaji had said in that first lecture I attended. “Observe the breath . Is it fast or slow, deep or shallow? Just observe it. But don’t try to change it. It will change on it’s own.”

And so I stopped reaching for calm, and instead sat and allowed myself to feel the surging energy and that tingling in my core that signaled my arousal. And yes... it did change.

Let's Talk...about Mental Health

There's a campaign afoot to get people talking more often and openly about mental health, and today has been designated "Let's Talk" day. So I think I'll write about it.

I don't think of myself as mentally ill, but then again I don't think of myself as physically ill, either. But just as I've experienced physical illness throughout my life, it's probably fair to say I've suffered from mental illness all my life as well, though I cringe a bit at expressing it that way. 

Which, to me, highlights a big chunk of what we're dealing with. As a culture, we're still stuck in treating maladies of the mind in broad, imprecise generalities that confuse or obscure realities. We lump various conditions together, overlooking important distinctions, with the result that simple and appropriate solutions are overlooked.

And my openning points to one of the main - and very problematic - generalities. We think of physical illness as something that comes and goes. But mental illness it's treated like a once and forever thing. You can catch a bad flu, get over it, and that's that. But have a serious bout of depression and it's liable to follow you forever. Have a moody day and folks around you will be ready to put you back on the medication. Of course depression can be recurring. And some people get the flu every year. But it ain't necessarily so.

Take another example. We recognize that a person who has trouble walking can be dealing with any one - or more than one - of a wide variety of very different conditions. The problem could be a broken bone, or an infection. A splint would aide in one of those conditions and a shot of penicillin in the other, but if you misapply them you achieve nothing. But the problem might also be a torn or sprained muscle or an inflamed joint; there could be an illness at work, or a back, spine or nerve problem in play. Or a person might be paralysed, over-worked, or under-nourished. Some of these conditions are indicative of disease, others are not; some may be on-going, and others are very temporary and non-recurring.

But when it comes to the mind, we're much more likely to simply think of someone as having a "mental health problem", and getting no more precise than that. We'll back away from the person afflicted, avoid all discussion with them about what's going on, then gossip with everyone else. But in reality, the problem could be chronic or passing, biological or incidental, serious or minor, hereditary or environmental, incapacitating or a survival skill.

Perhaps most damaging is that we tend to think of people suffering from a mental health problem as permanently damaged or defective, something we'd never think of someone with the a lung infection, a broken toe or chicken pox. Even cancer and AIDS have gradually shed the "mark of death" stigma, because survivors who suffer no apparent, on-going deficits have become common. But the scourge of mental illness remains.

In my own case, when I look at it and think about it, I become mentally ill much more regularly than I become physically ill. I have a strong constitution and my body just doesn't break down that often. But I come down with mental/emotional "colds" and "flus" pretty regularly. They aren't severe enough that I need hospitalization, but I might need a day off from work, or just to retreat from my social world for a bit. Or I might need to take some "over-the-counter medication", like some regular meditation, or walks, or talks with my closest friends. And just as on the physical side, a little preventative nutrition and exercise can go a long way.

This lack of awareness exists as much in my area of work - the social services - as elsewhere. In this community we're accustomed to dealing with clients with diagnosed mental illnesses. But we are also conditioned to ignore the milder forms of depression, anxiety or mental exhaustion that so many of us suffer from. I've worked at agencies where mental health days were treated as the same as physical health days. But that's a rarity, and there's little substantive support for the "care givers" who don't care for themselves, hense the rampant burnout in the field, of workers who are overwhelmed and stressed to the limit.

So, I'm grateful and appreciative of this small effort to draw more attention to mental health. No doubt it'll get better, if we'll only pay attention...and keep on talking about it!

The Speaking Secret Streets

Remember that gorgeous film, “Wings of Desire” about the angels overlooking sad, black and white Berlin? They wander and listen and observe, tapping into the secrets, fears, the desires; listening to the thoughts of the despairing, the lost, taking that lonliness in, silent witness and sharer of each lonely burden.

Arrogant as it is to compare us to the angels, I’m honored to be part of a team that recalls to me the feeling of watching that film. We do street outreach to the homeless in downtown Toronto. Most of our connections with clients begin in street level entryways, on the tops of sidewalk grates, under the expressway that slices through the downtown core, in parks, kneeling beside them while they panhandle, and in the tiny encampments along the Don
Valley or along the shoreline of Lake Ontario.

These isolated beings make me think of the night stars, in that they can be so invisible in the glare of day, in the raucous energy of a bustling metropolis at noon. But in the silence, the stillness and the dark, stretched space of the night and early morning, they seem almost to reappear, though they’ve been there all along. And the more still and silent one remains in that darkness, the more of them reappear, until, like the stars, the night is full of them.

I love city streets. And from the beginning, I felt blessed to have a job that required that I spend hours walking them. Streets are like stories...slowly unwinding, letting go their secrets, inviting you in deeper, to where you can't turn back. Most streets are short stories, quickly revealing their nature, building quickly and surely to release, telling their one and only tale. But some are complex, winding, long, weaving sub-plots and cross purposes. The buildings are like paragraphs and chapters, and on the streets of Toronto they tell a jumbled tale that jumps genres and styles with abandon. And so the city becomes a kind of living library.

And the homeless denizens of these streets are like the portions of these stories that have been edited out. They are the disconnected bits of a city that has grown rapidly and unevenly, beautifully though stressfully. And they speak the mangled, jarring bits, the Freudian slips, the mixed metaphors, the spewed Tourette epithets that aren’t deemed fit for the published manuscript. And yet, how much of the story these characters speak. All the two sharp language, the too graphic descriptors, the bite of the story are in them, these homeless, these displaced.

And I, our team, we’re that part of the writer that doesn’t want to let go of these morsels of pure, unsanitized truth. We’re entrusted with going out into the streets, with our ears and hearts open, to listen, listen, listen. To see, see, see.

During my first month in street outreach, walking up and down, with no pressure to get anywhere, but with the license (representing the people of the city) to be open and to connect, I found myself approached by these homeless. I looked at them, didn’t turn away, moved as an invitation, without destination but with purpose. And they, the street people, responded. They looked, they felt, they opened their mouths and spoke, sometimes with the force of the long-unspoken, the long unheard, the forever whispered. So often unintelligible, but always felt. Always real, and part of the as yet untold story.

I’m moved by all this. Inspired. So much so that sometimes I finish my day nearly intoxicated. And, perhaps like Wim Wender’s angel in the film, a respect sets in, a kind of recognition, a longing even. To be so human, so vulnerably, indefensibly, pathetically yet nobly human. To the point you no longer can or care to cover it up, to the point where public becomes your private, where everything is exposed and on the table.
 
No, I won’t go there. Of course not. It would be too rash. Would require too much courage, too much of the suicidal. But to recognize, at least to recognize, kinship with those whispering souls. To at least feel and recognize the heat of those distant, brilliant stars, shining out of a cold, dark night. To know those whispered words we don’t speak, but that scald our secret tongues and bleed out hidden hearts.