May they come home, safe and sound

Day 5
The 12 Days of Christmas Blessings at the shelter

It was just a plain cardboard box labelled with my name and address. Hopewell Hill, NB was the only clue as to the sender.

I knew who sent it. Sharon Wells. I'd heard from Sharon for the first time in November 2006 when she wrote to ask if there was anything she could do for the shelter. "My family is very grateful for the program and services that you and your association offer to the homeless and working poor in Calgary. Our daughter benefited from your services and our son may have been there too. He returned home this week and we had not seen him since 2002. This is one of the best Christmas gifts one can have that you cannot put under the tree; love of your family."

She's been sending hand knit mittens and toques every year for the past three years. This year she wrote:

"Enclosed is a box of hand made mitts and hats from two gals from new Brunswick who truly believe in the work that you and your volunteers offer the residents of Calgary. As in the past, you have supported our children as they went out west to find employment, and start a new life, that may not have been so glamorous, and ended up in your shelter.

In our appreciation, please accept these small tokens, made with huge hearts by mothers who know what it is like to have a child that has lived on the streets in Calgary. May these warm gifts from our heart help others that are in need this coming winter.

As in past years, these items are made with wool from sheep that have grazed in New Brunswick, wool spun and manufactured at Briggs & Little in New Brunswick and knitted by myself, a New Brunswicker and Marg, a Newfoundlander.

May you and your volunteers know that your work has not gone unnoticed but has encouraged many, even mothers on the east coast of Atlantic Canada."

A plain cardboard box. A label with just my name and address and a return address in Hopewell Hill, NB, a town I'd never heard of until a woman named Sharon contacted me to ask what she could do to thank us for caring for her child until he could return home again. A plain cardboard box that held all the prayers and hopes of mothers the world over. May my child come home, safe and sound -- for Christmas, Hanukkah, Ramadan. Whatever the occasion. May my child come home, safe and sound.

I opened the box and cried. Earlier in the day I'd received a box of belongings from James Bannerman. Staff had cleaned out his locker. Culled the items that were not personal and sent to my office those things they believed had value to his family or which could add value to the art program. I'd cried when I'd opened the box of James' goods too. Those tears had been of sadness. Sorrow. Loss.

When I opened Sharon's box my tears were tears of joy. Of gratitude. Of hope.

We never know when something we do will make a difference. We never know what that difference will be. We never know whose heart we'll touch.

In receiving Sharon and Marg's gifts from their heart, knit in hands of love, my heart was touched and moved and filled with gratitude. The simple gesture has made a difference. It is felt in the brightly coloured, warm woolen mittens they knit with such tender loving care. The wool is soft. Deep rich colours. Red. Green. Gold. Brown. Beige. Orange. Blue. Colours of the rainbow. A rainbow of colours knit into a box.

This is an amazing world. A world where lack and scarcity walk our streets and remind us that gratitude is the path to abundance. That when we count our blessings we build a bridge to the other side of the street that lights the path for those seeking a way back home.

This is an amazing world where on one side of the street people walk wrapped up in the warm coats of lives stitched together from one moment to the next filled with things to do, places to go, people to see. A world where, sadness and bleakness wear weary paths to the place where shelter is found in every kind of weather, just across the street.

A world where, just across the nation, mothers, like Sharon and Marg, sit together and while away the dark hours of winter to the soothing hum of knit one, pearl one. Their hope is knit into the truth that, no matter how far they are from the streets of Calgary, they can make a difference with their constant knitting together of woolen mittens cast on needles of love.

A world where two mothers spend their hot summer days on the porch knitting and chatting stringing together pearls of gratitude for the gifts their children received while so far from home.

A world where in the cool of autumn evenings, knitting needles click and two mothers create a gift that will shelter the hands of those who have been left out in the cold.

With each knit one, pearl one, Sharon and Marg stitch together the possibility of hope arising in the hearts of those who receive their gifts -- no matter the state of their lives or their position at the shelter -- because each stitch has been cast with a pearl one of gratitude, a knit one of hope.

In opening the box of multi-coloured mittens, I was reminded that when we knit one in hope, pearl one in gratitude, we stitch into the tapestry of this world all the love a mother's heart can hold. A love that, no matter the distance between us, can never be torn apart, can never come unstitched.

This year, there are those on our Christmas WishList who have asked for warm mittens. This year, they will receive the gift of not just a pair of warm woolen mittens, but also a gift knit with love in caring hands.

May their hearts be touched, their spirits renewed and their lives be forever changed. May they know the love that went into every stitch. May they know that across this wondrous land, there are those who care, no matter how far from home they may roam.

And may they know that somewhere a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, an aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, cousin, grandmother, grandfather, someone, perhaps many someones, wait, hoping and praying that one day they will come home, safe and sound.

Please Listen

Day 4
The 12 Days of Christmas Blessings at the Shelter

He sits in the hall. His body hunched over the love of his life. Holding her tenderly in his arms. He strokes her long neck, his fingers light. His touch soft. He stares at her lovingly. Coaxes her to sing.

Once upon a time he had another love. A woman who carried his name. "She was the boss," he quips. "Lesson learned. Move on." He smiles. "Now, the guitar is my boss."

Now his days are spent with this new mistress. His guitar. She's melodious and deep. A part of him. Carrier of his soul. Keeper of his hopes and dreams. He forever murmurs to her. "No. That's not right." "Try this." "Yes. Yes. Much better." "There. That's it. Like this." And the notes trip over the strings. Fall from his fingertips. Leap into the air. He nods his head. His cheek pressed against the worn wood of the guitar's rounded shoulder.

He wrote of his guitar recently in a response to a poem by Langston Hughes, Dreams.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life
Is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

He encountered Langston's poem during a writer's workshop Margot Van Sluytman was holding in the multi-purpose room on the sixth floor of the shelter.

"I don't write," he'd told me when I encouraged him to go. "I'm a guitar man." Like John Harris, "Guitar Man", my hearing can be selective. I didn't listen to his excuses. Neither did Margo. He went to the workshop. And fell in love. With Margot. With the words of Langston Hughes. With words posed next to each other like a beautiful melody. A counterpoint to the sonorous sounds of his guitar. Invisible feelings dancing in the air.

If I may be so bold
As to say silence is gold(en)
What is its opposite?

One note or many in perfect conjunction
May not fulfill our rambunctious function.

I hear, here, a tear and a fear
And purposeful reflection.

Ambient air with plush vibrations
Instrumentally piques some inner sensations.

This longing for oneness
and some sort of sense of commitment to art and public events
makes me write my dream in transient air
not knowing the feelings I may have put there.

The guitar is my lifeblood, for right or for wrong

Please listen, please listen,
for this is my song.

John Harris. November 2009

Tucked in an alcove of the Hygiene area, sitting beside a mop and bucket, John's guitar has poured forth its soothing grace beside the hum of the washers and dryers. It fills the air of the hallway outside the Wild Rose Studio on the 6th floor of the shelter. It adds grace to art shows and countless number of events the DI holds throughout the year. And always, John guides the notes with controlled movements. He willingly shares his gift with TV crews and reporters. With visitors and donors. With school groups and church groups who come to lend a hand or simply to learn about what it means to be a part of Canada's largest homeless shelter.

He is a man of deep humour. Of deep thoughts. Of deep notes rising forth from his guitar.

His wish this year is simple. A box of guitar strings would be nice he says. "One set doesn't last me long." A good book. A gift card to Walmart where he would have the freedom to buy what he needs.

Freedom.

There isn't much of it at a shelter. What there is John fills with the amazing sounds that rise from his guitar and fill the air with good tidings of joy. A gift of music for all mankind.

In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

Day 3
The Twelve Days of Christmas Blessings at the Shelter

I hadn't seen her for awhile. Not an unusual circumstance at the shelter. People come. They go. To rehab. To other shelters. Home. The street. To friends. To prison. A hotel for a few nights when the cheques come in. It is a fluid place, the shelter. Like the tide. Constantly flowing. In. Out. Ebb. Flow. Constantly carrying people from one place to the next. In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

She'd been gone for awhile. I hadn't known where but there she was a few weeks ago at the memorial service for a staff member who had passed away. She stood up and walked to the podium at the front of the room. Hesitantly. Haltingly. Emotion choked her. She opened her mouth to speak. She closed her mouth. Breathed. In. Out. Again. Open. Close. Breathed. In. Out. Again. Open. Close. Ebb. Flow.

I took her a glass of water. A box of Kleenex. "I first met Doug in 2002 when I came here," she began in her throaty voice, tears running down her face. "I'd just gotten out of prison. He was really nice to me. He'd give me cigarettes. He helped me. Get sober. For four years. I slipped in 2006. And now, I'm just out of rehab." Ebb. Flow. "I'm okay. I'm going to miss him. He was a real friend."

I knew her in her 'slip'. That place where she had ebbed away from sobriety into the flow of alcohol that separated her from staying on track with the world around her. I'd met her just after I'd begun working at the shelter. She was always funny. Always amused by the comings and goings of the shelter. Ebb. Flow. Her state didn't matter. Sober. Drunk. She always looked at the bright side. She was always chatty. Always looking out for her fellow man.

She went away for awhile and now she says, "I'm back."



She tells the interviewer for the Christmas WishList that she doesn't like the schedule of shelters and hopes to get her life back on track. She says she enjoys dancing, listening to music, reading and her favorite thing would be to soak in a nice hot bath.

And all she wants for Christmas is a pair of size 8 winter boots.

Size 8 boots. I imagine what she could do with those boots. Perhaps with winter boots she'd kick butt. Walk on out of here and into a different life. These boots are made for walking. I wonder where she'd go?

She's getting on track. Getting herself together.

I pray she gets what she asks for. I pray someone will read her wish and in their gift remind her, she is not alone. She is not forgotten. She has the power to walk on by the things that brought her down so she can get on up and get her life back on track.

In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

Hello. Just call me Happy

Yesterday, Mark suggested I expand my Christmas theme to celebrate the people who live and work at the shelter.

Day 2
The Twelve Days of Christmas Blessings at the Shelter

He doesn't want to fill out a Christmas Wishlist form. "I don't need anything," he says. "I have everything I need, right here." His arms sweep out to encompass the large room around him, like a delicate bird fluttering its wings.

He is a small man. Wiry. Always moving. His fingertips touch when he talks. He nods his head. Constant motion like a brook burbling cheerfully through the forest. He is sitting on the second floor of the shelter. A happy man amongst almost a thousand other men and women, most of whom do not share his sunny outlook, but who do share a common theme in their lives; homelessness.

"Life is good," he smiles. "Yes. Life is good."

His nickname is Happy. "My mother, she called me Happy," he said once. "I think she didn't want me to be sad."

He was sad once. Really sad. He had a wife. A child. A family. A home. They took his child from him. Kidnapped her, he said. He didn't understand. Now he does. He has a mental illness that took away all that he loved. All that he held dear.

Now, many years later, he has found contentment. His needs are simple. His wants are few.

He needs community. People around him. Food. Shelter. People to share his smiles. He needs his meds to keep him walking comfortably along the paths and byways of this life he's come to know as his own, in spite of his scarcity. In spite of his homelessness.



His real name is Zahir. He comes from another country. Many years ago. Today, he calls the shelter home. He looks upon the people who serve him and who live with him as, his family, his community.

What does he ask for this Christmas? To be safe. To be well. To not, as he calls it, have 'the bug's' buzzing in his head.

We can give him his wish this Christmas. His wish is simple to fulfill.

What he gives us is so much more.

Smiles. And laughter. Stories. A sense of joy. A sense of wonder. For Zahir, the world is a place of wonder, sometimes mixed with the fear he will die alone. He will not be found on time. As long as he has a place to call home at the shelter, his fear recedes and he becomes who he wants to be, who he likes to be, 'Happy'.

So this is Christmas

Day 1
The Twelve Days of Christmas Blessings at the Shelter

I had to be in at the shelter this morning at 5:30am to meet a camera crew. It is a busy time at the shelter. People are being awoken. Some, don't want to wake up. Some, don't want to move along. Get going. Get up and get into their day. Some, would rather cling to sleep, to those last vestiges of whatever dream they were immersed in, to prolong the rude awakening to another day, just like yesterday, where scarcity and lack and homelessness are their reality.

It is a busy time of day. A busy time of year, or, as one staff said this morning, 'tis the crazy season.

The season when those who call the shelter home feel, deep down on a soulful level, who is missing, what is lacking, who is gone, who is not there, where we are not, the tables and families and friends with whom we were once connected.

For some, it will be their first Christmas carrying the label, "Homeless". No matter how long, however, they've been homeless, each year brings different challenges, different experiences.

So this is Christmas.


This is a new experience Christmas for me too. My eldest daughter Alexis moved away in November and will be arriving home for Christmas on the 16th. We're holding off putting up the tree, turning the house into a Christmas festival until her arrival. It just wouldn't be the same without her.

I remember Christmas' past when the girls were little and we would decorate and bake and sing and dance and laugh together. Times when we had Christmas carolling parties and invited our friends and family to come and celebrate with us-- a meal, some cheer and then to wander the streets of our neighbourhood singing songs of good tidings and joy. Santa came to those parties. The children's' eyes would widen. They'd race to greet him asking, "Where's your reindeer? Am I on your list? Did you get my letter?"

Alexis wasn't fond of Santa. She didn't like the big stuffed mascots either who walked around the Christmas Tree display with the hope of entertaining children. She would cry out in dismay, cling to my neck and ask them to go away.

Big furry mascots weren't her thing. What she loved was the activity of Christmas. Baking cookies. Cutting out decorations. Stringing the tree with lights. She and her sister Liseanne would argue over who's turn it was to put the angel at the top. "Mum, she did it last year. Remember?" "Mum, let her make me do it." Some years, they'd settle their differences by declaring, "Mum. It's your turn this year."

I remember Christmas Eve of years past. Sitting quietly in the late of night, wrapping presents, making bows, listening to music as I sipped a glass of wine.

They were some of my favourite times. Those quiet late night/early mornings where the girls slept together in one bed -- it has been and continues to be their tradition -- and I would sit in the living room surrounded by the smells and sounds and feelings of Christmas. To know that two such precious and amazing gifts lay wrapped up together in a blanket, tucked in, whispering and giggling (they always pretended to be sleeping when I'd peek in the door) always brought tears to my eyes, melted my heart in the warm glow of love that can never end. Eventually, they really would fall asleep and in the morning, I would open their bedroom door and discover the greatest gift I have ever received. My daughters. Love that lives forever.

I am blessed.

Here at the shelter, the Christmas season has come. Lights twinkle on the floors. Trees stand sentry in the corners, their lights tiny beacons in the early morn. Parcels and packages are arriving. Some have names on them as they've come through the Christmas WishList just for John C. or Linda W. or Jordan F. Within each parcel is the thing they asked for, their "All I want for Christmas" wish.

It is all they can ask for. For many of them, most probably, the thing they long for most is what they cannot find, cannot have, cannot ask someone else to give them. A way back home.

For many, that road is blocked by addictions, family violence, divorce, death, mental health issues.

For many, the road home is a long journey that begins each morning when they awaken and face another day in this place called homelessness.

For many, the road home will begin when they open their gift Christmas morning and discover the thing they wished for is really there. That thing they asked for, the warm winter gloves, the new sweater, the book, the bathrobe, really has been given. And in that moment of finding their wish fulfilled, trust awakens. Hope arises. Possibility opens up.

We never know what possibility one gift can bring. We never know how deeply someone will be touched, what can happen when a stranger cares enough to give the thing you've asked for.

What I do know is, this Christmas, no matter how crazy, for those so far from home, the road back will begin with awakening on Christmas morning to find, someone cared enough to make a difference in their life.

What a blessing.

So, This is Christmas.

Where ever you are this year, look around you, reach out, find a place, a way, a someone, a stranger, a friend who needs something you can give.

Find someone to share you love and joy so that we create a circle of caring hearts opening up to the wonder of being alive on Christmas morning to receive the greatest gift of all. Love.

And on Christmas morning, I hope, like me, you open someone's door and discover the greatest gift you have ever received.

The YouTube video is from a man's home in Katy, Texas. Every year he strings it with lights that dance and sparkle in time to John Lennon's "so this is Christmas".

Twelve Days of Blessings

Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving. W. T. Purkiser

'Tis the season of joy. Of partridge in a pair tree. Of Christmas lights and children's eyes glowing bright.

'Tis the season to be filled with the spirit of expectation, of anticipation, of preparation, of longing.

'Tis the season of hope. Of patience. Of joy. Of arrival.

'Tis the season of re-birth. Of love ever-lasting.

'Tis the Advent Season.

This morning, I journeyed over to High Calling Blogs to read up on Dan King's "Twelve Days of Self-Promotion" celebration -- which he calls the Twelve Days of Christmas with a techno community touch. I came to Dan's blog through my friend Maureen's Writing without Paper.


That's the thing about friendship -- even a friendship formed here in the cyber space of people sitting at desks in front of computer screens in far flung places of the world. Friendship knows no bounds. Friendship doesn't discriminate. It doesn't judge. It doesn't cast stones. Friendship casts a beautiful glow of light that warms hearts and touches spirits around the world connecting each of us in a circle of respect, and love and dignity and joy that keeps on sharing and giving and receiving in an endless circle of caring about one another.

In Maureen's first celebration of the Twelve Days, she wrote about me. WoW. I wasn't expecting it -- and isn't that the best gift? To receive something so cherished, so special, so unexpected that when you receive it your heart breaks open with tears of joy and gratitude?

What an amazing gift Maureen has been in my life. Since meeting her here in cyberland, I have been blessed with reading her words, of being moved by the heart pictures she creates with her poetry and prose. I have met some other amazing people and I have found some incredible gems worth sharing and keeping and cherishing. Like the words of John O'Donohue. How I missed him before I don't know. Having encountered his words through Maureen and through Joyce at Peaceful Legacies, I am a big fan!

So this morning, I wanted to share with you something I found at High Calling Blogs. It started off with clicking on a video he has on his front page and ended up with my searching the music of a man I'd never heard of, Sufjan Stevens who creates under the label -- and you gotta love this -- Asthmatic Kitty Records.

I love Sufjan's mix of folk and tonal sounds and what he calls, 'religious fantasy'. During this, the second week of Advent, in the season of Joy, I wanted to share with you Sufjan Stevens video recording of Joy to the World. In a world where war and crime, hatred and envy rattle our nerves with every headline, may this beautiful song quieten your heart and bring you peace.



So for my Twelve Days of Christmas Blessings, I will be sharing with you a Christmas treasure I have found somewhere in this amazing space called Cyberland. Over the next twelve days I will be sharing the incredible blessings I encounter through this season of Advent.

May we all dance with joy today. May we all know peace. May we all surrender and fall in love.

Nameste.

Where love begins and never ends.

Old times never come back and I suppose it's just as well.What comes back is a new morning every day in the year, and that's better. George Edward Woodberry

The story goes that there was a man in Seville who was estranged from his son. After a year, he couldn't really remember what had caused the fight that pushed them apart, all he knew was, he missed his son and wanted to find him. He searched and searched to no avail. One day, he took out a full page ad in the local newspaper. "To Jorge. This is your father. I forgive you. Please forgive me. Please meet me on Saturday at 5:30pm under the clock tower in the civic plaza. I will be waiting with open arms. I love you."

At the appointed time the father arrived at the clock tower hoping desperately to find his son. He was surprised to see it so crowded. He pushed through the crowd, searching for his son, calling his name, "Jorge. Jorge. Jorge." Young man after young man turned to answer. "Father? Father? Father?" The father opened his arms. Not one man stood before him seeking forgiveness. Five hundred young men stood before him. Five sons named Jorge had responded to his ad hoping to reconnect with their father's loving arms. Five hundred sons seeking forgiveness. Seeking love.."

On Dec 9, 1953 at a few minutes past midnight, a child entered this world. She had eyes of wonder, a seeking mind, a questing spirit. She didn't know anger, or fear, or despair. She didn't know hatred or jealousy or envy. Those words would come to her as she grew. As she entered this world all she knew was love. All she experienced was the wonder of life. The mystery of connecting to this physical plane of the human condition.

As this child grew she held onto wonder and learned what it meant to be fearful. As she grew she held onto love and learned of hate and envy. As she grew she held onto joy and learned of sorrow and sadness. Of pain and failure and loathing. As she grew she learned to trust and distrust. She learned to tell the truth and to lie to hide her feelings. She learned to risk. She learned to play it safe. She learned to open up and to close herself off. She learned to dance and run and fly. She learned to stand still for fear of falling. She learned so much that opened her up to the wonders of this world. She learned so much that closed her off to the wonders of this world.

Today is that woman's birthday. Today she celebrates all that is holy. All that is mystical. All that is magical and wondrous and magnificent about her, around her, within her.

She doesn't remember the moment of her birth. She knows the stories. Those family histories that get trotted out with laughing reminders of, "remember when...." or "You were always such a ......" "You never..........." She wonders at the folly of the human condition that reminds us of all we've done wrong in the past, long ago, way back when in a time we cannot change. She wonders at our resistance to change, to letting go, to forgiving. She wonders at the things we hold onto in fear of getting what we want. She wonders at our despair at finding ourselves, where ever we're at, on the road of life in fear of celebrating this new day dawning for all we're worth.

She marvels at the beauty of the human condition that can overcome pitfalls and setbacks. The human condition that can fall so hard rock bottom becomes a welcoming place. The human condition that can journey so far from the source of love and beauty and truth and joy and wonder that it swims in a river of hatred and fear and self-denigration only to find itself again, swept out to sea, cleansed and free to swim in the ocean of love that is this human condition we all share, to which we are all connected, through which we must all pass.

Today is my birthday. Yesterday, as I sat with James, waiting for the nurse to enter to confirm the 'time of death', I marvelled at how one man can journey so far from home, only to come back again to that place where it all began. To that place where love begins and never ends.

We are created in love. Come into this world in love and leave it on a wave of love. Love is all we carry with us when we leave. Love is all we can leave behind. Love is all. The rest is just 'stuff'.

Today is my birthday. I celebrate the love that brought me into this world. The love that carries me each day. The love that lifts me up and fills me up with the truth of who I am.

I am a child of God. The Divine expression of His amazing grace.

Today I celebrate His grace by dancing joyfully in the truth of being all I'm meant to be. A fearless woman, touching hearts and opening minds to set spirits free. Today, I open my arms wide and embrace myself. I forgive me. I love me. I open my arms wide and embrace the world around me. I forgive you. I love you. Today I celebrate being me for all I'm worth. I am a miracle of life. The loving essence of what it means to be human, being all I'm meant to be when I surrender and fall in love.

Please celebrate with me the wonder and joy and mystery of being ourselves. Be your most amazing self. Your life depends upon it.

Today, let's celebrate our light. We are on the journey of our lifetime, illuminating the path to freedom with our joy and wonder, our beauty and truth, completing each moment we pass through in a prayer of forgiveness and love. I forgive you. I love you.