The other night, while working late at the shelter, I came down the stairs towards our first floor entry. Three staff were standing at the security area, barring a man from entering. He was obviously under the influence. Belligerent. Aggressive.
The man saw me. Waved and called out, "Hello! Do you remember me?"
I waved back and replied. "Hello Joe. I remember you."
Joe was once in a program I facilitate in the evenings with a member of the financial community. The goal of the program is to teach budgeting and money management to clients on our transitional floors so that they can build sustainable life-skills that will keep them prospering once they leave the shelter.
"Can't I at least give her a hug?" Joe asked as I got closer to the little drama playing out between him and the staff members.
"No," said one of the staff members. A big man, broad shoulders, muscular arms. He stepped in front of me. "You need to leave Joe. You're welcome to come back when you're sober."
I waited behind the protective wall of the three backs of the staff. I wanted to reach out to the man, to tell him it's okay. To give him a hug. But the staff were working to keep the situation under control. I could not interfere and disrupt them. I didn't want to tip the balance of the delicate situation away from where they were heading. Within minutes, Joe left with a staff member beside him, guiding him outside.
Later, I spoke with the staff member who had gone outside with Joe. He asked if I was okay with what had transpired. "I am," I replied. "I trust you guys to make the right decisions in these situations."
The staff member went on to tell me about his conversation with Joe after they got outside. A year ago, Joe left the shelter to live on his own, working in his trade as an electrician. But, he misses his friends at the shelter. He misses the community. "I don't fit in out there," he told the staff member.
The longing for belonging.
At the shelter, especially on the transitional housing floor where he had resided for two years as he worked towards getting his life in order, Joe was 'somebody'. He was a leader. A role model. A mentor for the other guys looking to kick their habits, save money, get their lives in order.
At the shelter, Joe had a place to belong. He had a purpose.
Out there in the big world, Joe is just 'some guy'. He's one of the guys, but he doesn't feel a connection to the other's. He doesn't know where he fits. He lacks a sense of purpose.
For the past few months, Joe has started coming down to our corner of the world, going to the bar down the street from the shelter so that he can hang out with his friends, 'with people who understand me' he described it to the staff member.
Joe has money. Joe has lots of 'friends' in the bar. Joe ends up drinking more than he can handle. Joe becomes someone difficult to handle.
It is a quick slide back into the homelessness that once trapped him. Not because he doesn't have a home, or a job, but rather, because his yearning for belonging is dragging him back to a place where he is losing sight of the value he has in the world beyond homelessness. His yearning for a place to fit into, where he has meaning and purpose, a community where he is seen as a leader, a winner, is pulling him back to a place where he will, in order to find his meaning, lose everything he worked so hard to claim.
It is not an unusual cycle. Clients straighten out their lives. Rebuild their sobriety, their well-being and move on. Some make it. Many, like Joe, begin to slide back into the world they once vowed to leave behind until eventually, that world sucks them in until they begin the climb out again. There is meaning in the pursuit of happiness when you belong to a world of nothingness.
Australian photographer Rennie Ellis once said, "Beer has long been the prime lubricant in our social intercourse and the sacred throat-anointing fluid that accompanies the ritual of mateship. To sink a few cold ones with the blokes is both an escape and a confirmation of belonging.”
For Joe, a proud man who once stood on the pinnacle of success and stepped boldly out into the world having conquered the destitution that befell him, those few drinks in the bar are becoming the lubricant that will bring him back to a place where he never wanted to be and never wanted to come back to. It is a place that gave his life meaning, a place where he found a community to belong to.
And that is the paradox of his life. The sense of purpose he had as he climbed out the hole he was in gave his life meaning. It gave him a position in the community that others looked up to. Out there in the 'big world', Joe is just a peon. A working guy, like thousands of others, who swaggers through his day doing his job without many noticing the man beneath the overalls. The human being behind the tools he swings to get by.
For all of us, having meaning in our day, living on purpose is vital to our sense of accomplishment, our happiness, our peace of mind. When life grates and your nerves jangle with every step, ask yourself, "Am I living on purpose?" "Am I making a difference?"
If the answer is no. Stop. Take a breath. Do something, one thing that connects you beneath the comfort zone of the banality of your day. Ask a co-worker whom you've never spoken with out to coffee. Ask them what's important in their life. Who do they love? Share a smile with a stranger. Thank the cashier at the grocery store for her service. Tell her what makes her special.
Share your love in small ways where ever you go and keep living on purpose with every step you take.
We all belong to the human race. We all share in the human condition. We are all connected.
The question is: Are you bored with your life as it is? Are you complaining about same old, same old? Are you willing to step out and do something different? Are you willing to make a difference in your world today?
No comments:
Post a Comment