Light a Candle

I am on the elevator going up to the sixth floor from the parking garage underneath the building. It stops on the 3rd. The doors open and a large man steps on.

"I'm going up to sixth first," I tell him. "You're welcome to come for the ride."

It is a safe assumption to think he is going down. Above three are only the transitional sleeping floors of 4 and 5 and then the admin offices and boardroom and classrooms and art studio on six. The sleeping floors are closed during the day and clients are only allowed up to six if escorted.

He stops mid step turns and gets off the elevator. "Nah," he says. "I may as well walk down."

Behind him another man patiently waits his turn to get on the elevator. "I'll come along for the ride," he says as he steps into the confines of the small space with me. He is carrying a rolled up blanket and a plastic bag. His long thin frame is hunched at the shoulders. His face a craggy map of hard living and harder nights.

It is late in the day and I am just returning from a meeting outside the shelter where I work. He's come from Day Sleep, a service we provide to those who are ill or work nights.

"Did you have a good sleep today?" I ask him.

"Yeah," he replies. His voice husky as if reluctant to let sleep go. "I got out of Renfrew this morning and was glad of the opportunity to have Day Sleep. I need all the rest I can get right now."

Renfrew is a Detox Centre. Clients often cycle in and out, in and out. It gives them a three to five day window to dry out from whatever concoction they've been taking to mask the pain of their lives.

"Are you going on to a Rehab program," I ask. Often, after Renfrew is the best time to catch someone before they fall once again under the lure of alcohol or drugs.

"I gotta," he replied. "Three years," he says, his head nodding up and down. His mouth a thin line. "Three years I've managed to stay off the crack. But the alcohol. I gotta beat that baby. I gotta quit. I don't wanna die a drunk."

"You sound convinced of what you want to do," I say as the elevator bell chimes and the doors open on the sixth floor. I swipe my access card against the panel on the elevator wall that will let me access other floors. "First or second floor?" I ask him.

"Second," he says, clutching his blanket tightly to his chest. "I need some coffee." The second floor is our day area where clients can sit and watch TV, plays cards, read a book, visit with friends and share a meal.

"Good luck with the rehab," I say as I step off the elevator.

"Thanks," he replies. "I'm gonna quit this time."

I turn and smile at him. "I believe you. Getting to this place takes courage and you've obviously got lots of that," I reply as the doors begin to close between us.

He sticks a foot between the closing doors to stop them. "You think I've got courage?"

"Absolutely. You gave up crack. You went to Renfrew. You've committed to quitting drinking. That all takes courage," I tell him.

He stands and looks at me, his eyes peering into mine as if looking for some hidden meaning, some joke he hasn't quite got. His head nods up and down again. "Thanks. I like that. Courage. Never saw myself that way before. Courage."

And the buzzer sounds on the elevator to indicate the doors have been held open too long. He grins. Removes his foot and the doors slide closed.

It was just a momentary encounter. A fleeting exchange of two people riding an elevator in a homeless shelter. And yet, in those few moments the story of thousands of men and women unfolded.

I gotta quit.
I gotta give it up.
I gotta get straight.

No one likes the role of addict. No one enjoys the moments in between the highs when reality sets in and grinds you down with its insistence that you will never change, never get away from the strife and turmoil of wanting that next fix, that next hit, that next slug of a bottle to make the horror of where you're at and what you've become go away.

He was one man on an elevator determined to make a change.

I pray he does. I pray he holds onto the thought that he is a courageous man and he can do it.

For that man, and the hundreds of men and women like him, I light a candle.

You can light a candle too by visiting here.

I'm sure there's someone who needs your prayers, who needs the breath of hope you can give when you believe in them enough to help them see, they have the courage they need to succeed.

Take a Moment

Light a Candle

From time immemorial, people have lit candles in sacred places as expressions of devotion and gratitude. Why should cyberspace be any less sacred? Help make the Internet a little more holy by visiting www.gratefulness.org. Sit in silence for a minute or two, feeling your breath while gently reflecting on the many blessings of life. Form a prayer in the center of your heart, surrounding yourself and everyone you love with the warmth of your gratitude. Then use the website to light your own virtual candle, releasing your prayer to the rest of the world. Take a deep breath, exhale, and enjoy your day.

The shame of it all

Let go of your attachment to being right, and suddenly your mind is more open. You're able to benefit from the unique viewpoints of others, without being crippled by your own judgment. Ralph Marston

Last night, at Project Forward (a course I teach at the shelter where I work) I told the class a story about a young soldier returning from Afghanistan who called his parents to say, "I'm coming home." Joyfully, his parents accepted the news and started making plans for their sons return. Just before returning home, their son called back and asked them if it was okay if he brought a friend with him. "He has no family and he was seriously wounded. He has no legs and is confined to a wheelchair."

His parents hemmed and hawed. We can help him find a place, they said, but having to care for a cripple is beyond the level of our ability. We won't have the time to commit. It will be too much for your mother.

The son said he understood, and told them he'd be home in a few days. A few days later the parents received a visit from the military police. Their son had committed suicide. "Did you know he was wounded and lost his legs," they asked the shocked parents.

I asked the class what that story meant to them.

One man replied, "He let his shame kill him. He was so ashamed of his wound, he couldn't tell his parents what had happened. I know how he feels. My family doesn't know where I am. I can't tell them."

"Are you ashamed of where you are?" I asked him.

"I'm ashamed that I'm here. Yeah. I'm ashamed of the things that happened that got me here," he said.

"You're here, taking this course. You turn up every Wednesday night. You do your homework. That takes courage. Will carrying shame get you more or less of what you want?"

He laughed. "Less. But, look what I did that brought me here. It was so stupid."

"Yup. The things I did that brought me down were stupid too. Carrying the shame, though, only keeps me mired in feelings of being less than. And, it's a good way of avoiding taking responsibility for what I did. Because it keeps me from loving myself exactly the way I am, warts and all. And if I can't love myself as I am, then I am denying part of myself."

The young soldier could not accept what had happened to him. In his inability to accept that, he could not tell his parents the truth. I don't know what was going on in his mind (it is a story though so I can imagine!). In my imaginings, I think he felt that if he was testing his parents on whether or not they could love him as an amputee. Perhaps the son was looking for an excuse to kill himself because he couldn't live as an amputee. By testing his parents, he gave himself the out he was looking for. Looking through his eyes of judgement, "I am less than a man", he ended his life in shame.

For the client at the shelter, shame of being where he's at, not wanting to tell the people who love him is equally as debilitating.

When I could say, "I am broken", without judging myself as 'wanting, less than, stupid, blind, etc., I gave myself the power to start healing from where I was at without fear of how other people saw me. As long as I held onto the notion that it was shameful to tell people how broken I was for fear that they might judge me as 'wanting, less than, stupid, blind, etc.,, I was withholding from myself the very thing I needed to heal -- the truth.

Once I accepted the truth, I could accept other people's offers to help me. I was broken. I didn't know how to put myself back together. I needed help.

There is no shame in falling. The shame comes when we lie on the ground and wallow in self-pity, fear and denial and refuse to see there are those who would help us get back up again.

The question is: Are you willing to let go of your shame and claim your reality today and love yourself exactly the way you are? Are you willing to accept help when it's needed?

This precious privilege of life

I awoke to an early morning phone call from my daughter. She's in Thailand, on the last 12 days of a 3 1/2 month journey through Australia, New Zealand and Thailand.

We've got a party planned for when she returns. It will be a birthday, homecoming celebration. A night for friends and family to gather and hear her stories, and share in her journey.

But first, she has to experience these last 12 days before coming home.

"This last two weeks is hard," she told me, her voice crackling across the transpacific airwaves. "I'm so homesick."

Nearing the end of a journey can be more challenging than starting out. The exhilaration of new adventure begins to wane, the distance to go shortens. Our sights begin to turn inward, closer to where we're at. We do not see adventure waiting, we see homecoming, the end, the finish line, the completion nearing.

Like climbing a mountain, a journey away from home takes us to new heights, new vistas, new perspectives. And then we begin the descent. That journey homeward where we are tired, our bodies replete with the new perspectives we've gained. Our minds scream out for rest, but we must journey onward, for as Robert Frost wrote, there are "miles to go before I sleep".

Journey's are not in getting to the destination. They're about experiencing every moment of the voyage. Stopping to take in the views. Resting to let time catch up to where we're at. Stepping forward to move from one moment to the next. Journies are about feeling the ground beneath our feet. They're about stepping firmly onto any terrain so that we can claim our right to stand tall, stand firm, stand up for who we are, our beliefs, our values, our desires where ever we are in the world.

For Alexis, sharing her journey with me from a phone on the other side of the world, her words racing around this ball spinning through time in another zone, home feels like a long, long way away. Coming home feels like forever.

For me, sitting here on this side of the hemisphere where the sun has broken from behind sodden grey clouds, my daughter feels like she's a world away. I want to reach out and hug her, tell her she's okay, she's courageous, she's on the journey of her lifetime today, don't rush it. Soak up these last few days, drain every moment of experience, live every moment with abandon.

The journey has just begun. She may never pass that way again, may never travel those roads in the future. This is the time to stand tall and embrace whatever the road has to offer without fearing once she's home she'll miss where she's at.

As we hung up she whispered into the phone. "Thanks for your insights mom. I needed to hear your voice."

What greater gift can a mother ask for? A daughter who has the courage to travel around the world. Who can ride elephants and raft down wild rivers. A daughter who is willing to stretch beyond her comfort zone into the great big world around her and experience the multi-coloured facets of being on foreign soils, far from home. A daughter who, no matter where she is in the world, still wants to call home and talk to her mother just so she can say, "I love you."

That is an awesome gift. I am truly blessed.

As I journey into my morning and stretch into my day, I am reminded by my daughter that life is the adventure. On this journey of a lifetime, courage is not the absence of fear, it is the willingness to move through it and live fearlessly in love with life. As Marcus Aurelius, a Roman emperor who reigned supreme long ago wrote, “When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive - to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.”

The question is: Where in the world are you standing right now? Are you claiming this precious gift of life and breathing deeply in the wonder and joy of being you, where ever you're at?