Lately, my path has been strewn with sofas and chairs. Occasionally, I see a few mattresses lolling about but normally, it’s sofas. Perplexed and more than a bit curious, I wondered if furniture was “trending in” as landscape architecture! I figure that sofas are home furnishings but I’m not one to question the latest in cultural shifts. Hmmmm, this new exterior design feature does lend itself to conversation.

A few weeks ago, I was driving down Reed Street. Squeaking through on an amber light, I noticed a wing back chair dressed in rust naugahyde, adorned with precisely placed brass tacks. It sat, rather elegantly, on the sidewalk ramp leading to the street itself. It was waiting patiently, I would guess, for the traffic to stop so that it could leave the elementary school behind and head home.

About 10 blocks later, I spied a white rolled arm armchair listing a bit despondently toward both a tree and a dumpster. A bit disheveled, it gave evidence of not being quite ready to give up its usefulness. (I think it was trying to right itself!)

Today, I saw another armchair sitting anxiously under a palm tree. It appeared to be in rather decent shape, just waiting for the taker. I swore that I heard it saying “take me, take me.”

I do interact with the sad remnants of matter well on their way toward disintegration with quite some curiosity. It does not matter if I am walking or driving for I will see each and every sofa, chair or mattress. Cushions might be missing, backs stained with the grease of a multitude of heads, upholstery ripped and torn, spines broken. Surely, these brocade or duck or chintz sofas and chairs were so appreciated at some time in their lives.

I wonder if anyone ever blessed them for the comfort that they brought to human life. I wonder what stories they might tell. I wonder if they embraced a dog or cat or two. I wonder if they hosted an argument or a proposal. I just so wonder….

Well, I guess that the best that I can do is thank them for serving. Most of all, I want them to know that they were “seen” by me.

The day I discovered trees which shed their bark over time was a happy day for me. I’d walk along, see a tree in need of my attention and I would just flick off those loose pieces of bark. And so the walk went, tree to tree to tree popping off shaky bark. Occasionally, I would run into one that appeared to be transformationally complete! However, if I looked really, really close, I could discern yet another thin layer awaiting its right and perfect time to disengage.

One ‘popping bark’ day, I heard a bo-i-i-i-i-ng as an idea landed. It was an outrageous thought…good that only the dog was there to observe my insane giggle…but also a remarkable thought! What if, just what if, outworn beliefs could be flicked off with such ease. The bark hugged that tree until its time came, it loosened, it fell. So, why am I or anyone for that matter clinging so desperately to an outworn concept or two or three?

On one of my chaplaincy visits, I sat with a patient who really had an issue with using ‘old’ and ‘travel’ in the same sentence. She was horrified by her belief that she would ever be considered the stereotypical touring, white-haired woman staring out a bus window. I looked at her long and hard while she fleshed out her belief. Finally, I asked her why she cared what someone thought if she was doing what she loved to do, even though she was doing it with white hair and from a bus. –Eyes widened, smile filled her face. The bark popped off and landed.

If we allow, as does the sycamore, for beliefs to drop away when they have served whatever purpose they came to serve, we continue with a richer and deeper experience. As Neville Goddard indicated, too many people live lives of perpetual construction and deferred occupancy. Not so the tree. I don’t think it’s for me either.

Several weeks ago, a novel came across my path that provoked two live demonstrations of a fictional observation. The quote, by the way, was not one that I appreciated! Yet, it stayed in my head and I was subsequently led to the words of a modern mystic. Now, how is that for living in the connected universe?!

The novel’s characters, during the turbulent American Revolutionary War period, were struggling through an impossible drought at one point. In spite of the scant food supply, the community provided for those who were burying sons and husbands. The narrator remarks that “…those who have nothing, would give you half of that nothing.” She continues with “…and those who give nothing though they have all the riches in the world” must well and truly be subjects of scorn.

Wow! I thought. That is harsh.

A few weeks later I was sitting outside at Peet’s when a woman of few means sat down near me. While munching on a small bag of chips, she laughed and enjoyed the musician playing for “spare change.” When the fellow stopped, she said to any and all who would listen that she needed to let him know how much he touched her.  She dug around in that old, brown, cracked purse and pulled out a limp, much folded dollar bill.  “Here you go, darlin’, let me give you something for what that meant to me.”  That banjo player stood a good bit taller while a big smile took over his face. Me? I felt a bit besmirched by her generosity and so, I too, dragged some bills out of my jeans pocket and extended to him, getting the sweetest smile from both of them in the process.

The story doesn’t end there. A few days later, I walked by Grace Community Church where they serve breakfast every morning to those in need. I gathered that it was past meal time by a few minutes. Why? There, in the corner, against a window, one person in a mound of blankets slept on. Tiptoeing away was “a someone” who carefully and quietly put down an extra breakfast, clearly collected just for the sleeping individual.

My head remains abuzz with justifications as well as genuine inquiry. My Graduate Committee said that we all notice the giving by the destitute because it appears to be unique. Another said that no one makes such a huge thing of it when the money comes from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation because, “Well, sheesh, they’re richer than King Midas.” Then I asked, is there a strain of giving and a joy in giving that is unique to the poor, the homeless, the destitute that overlooks those who have much? Is there a confusion between giving of self and giving of dollars? Are we too-much valuing ‘goods’? Is there a connectedness missing in those who are not monetarily poverty-stricken? I have neither an answer nor a recommendation.

In reading Fr. Richard Rohr’s book What the Mystics Know, I’m getting a clue though!! Fr. Rohr stumbled on a homeless person’s graffiti that touched him profoundly. It said, “I watch how foolishly man guards his nothing, thereby keeping us out. Truly, God is hated here.” Fr. Rohr’s analysis opened my heart to another possibility. You see, Rohr admits that this street person “…so clearly recognize[s] the false nature of our self-image, [while having a] clear sense” of what it means to be included and excluded.

Is that it? Are we busily trying to be separate? Are we guarding our Nothing?

There are days when I believe that the epicenter of Life is the point where First Street and Santa Clara Avenue meet.  More specifically, I am preeettty certain it’s in front of Walgreens!! I have been shocked, intimidated, speechless, bemused, and knee-slapping laughing. The other day, I had one of the special ones.

Daydreaming while I waited for an acquaintance, I became aware of a mother and her child shuffling around beside me. Mother was putting on a pair of plastic gloves while giving instructions to her 5-yr-old. “Now, Shaneesha, I want you to stand back here by this lady while Mommy take care of things.” Take care of things, I thought, what things?

Curiosity triggered, I scanned the field. Then, it was an ooooh, yeah, that definitely needs to be taken care of!

I saw a tall, old fellow about three feet away. Head covered by a stocking cap, chest covered by a tattered shirt, and sweatpants drooping, oh dear, mid-buttocks in the back and upper thigh in the front. Talking to the trash bin, he stood there, seemingly incapable of bending down, pulling up his trousers, or moving. Shaneesha’s mother, giving one final snap to her plastic gloves, moved purposefully up to man. In a very common sense tone she told him that she was going to adjust his pants so that he would look presentable.

He continued his diatribe to some unknown person in some unknown language as he was made “presentable.” The woman was exceedingly efficient. She stuffed his male equipment into his sweatpants in the front; walked to his back and pulled that stretched out waistband up to his waist. Finally, she reached up and patted him tenderly on his bony shoulders.

Mouth agape, I watched her pull off the gloves, take Shaneesha’s hand and move down the street. The old man, sparked by some unknown impulse took a step, paused, hitched his bag up, took another step, and made his way ever so slowly toward ….

How, I wondered, can I be so privileged to witness such love, compassion, and respect in action? What comes across my path; well, let’s just say that it is wholly holy!