Open Heart

"You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven." (Matthew 5:14-16)

This past week, I learned something priceless about how being the light of the world doesn't only mean letting people see your good deeds.

In response to a post I made expressing gratitude for my family and friends on Thanksgiving, an acquaintance of mine decided to address me with some ugly words ("phony," "monster," "grotesque" etc.) as he believes that celebrating Thanksgiving glorifies the slaughter of animals and the genocide of Native Americans.

And then, he decided to follow up by going right for the emotional jugular and offering his opinion on the "real" reasons I was involved with Tent City.

My initial response was to ignore and dismiss everything he said as the ramblings of a bitter, self-hating individual who had clearly lost any connection to reality. But just as a stopped clock is right twice a day, there was some element of truth amid even his most vicious lies. Things that have, indeed, made me feel at least embarrassed.

Ultimately, I decided to respond by directly addressing his accusations, and making it clear that I would not continue the discussion until he was able to get a grip on his anger.

Ever hear the song "Secrets" by Mary Lambert? The first part goes like this:

I've got bipolar disorder
My shit's not in order
I'm overweight, I'm always late
I've got too many things to say
I rock mom jeans, cat earrings
Extrapolate my feelings, my family is dysfunctional
But we have a good time killing each other

They tell us from the time we're young
To hide the things that we don't like about ourselves
Inside ourselves
I know I'm not the only one who spent so long attempting to be someone else
Well I'm over it

I don't care if the world knows what my secrets are
I don't care if the world knows what my secrets are
So what...so what...so what...

I love it because all of the above (except for the part about the cat earrings) applies to me.

And, yeah. SO WHAT.

Perhaps there's someone else out there who has had a similar experience and your story helps them feel less alone, even empowered. And if you own your truth - including your transgressions, your flaws, and your pain - no one can use it to hurt you.

By all means, stay safe. But don't be afraid to fly that freak flag now and then. Because your darkness might be a light for someone else along the way. Because a truly open heart has both an entrance to let others in and an exit to let yourself out.

Let it shine. All of it.

Mission of My Soul

Left to right: Me, former Tent City resident
Lisa, and Linda of "Be the Change"

Linda and I waited at Boston Market as the meals were being prepared, mapping out a route between local motels and other locations where former residents of Lakewood's Tent City were being housed.

"What's the deal with ten people living in the woods?"

"I heard four or five. They're in tents over by the intersection. Did anyone find out about the new couple?"

"Joan's meeting up with them later. Bringing them food and sleeping bags."

Shortly thereafter, we were joined by Dr. Norma and several members of Be the Change. They loaded the still-warm meals into their truck. Our first stop would be the Capital Motel.

With only scant information on the people housed there, we tried to locate the lobby. The hallways were dimly lit; mezuzahs were affixed to the door frames of each room. Linda approached a man in a yarmulke with the names of residents. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to locate them. We agreed to return in the evening.

Our next stop was the Grand Motel, which was just up the road. We were fortunate to see Nancy, also a former Tent City resident, serving as the manager. She was able to help us get a headcount, set up a table, and find the folks we were seeking. As I was about to turn and lend a hand unloading the food, I saw a woman come down the stairs, and I recognized her immediately: Frances, the first Tent City resident I'd ever met. Before long, others joined her; we filled the table with the meals, water bottles, and utensils.

Motel manager Nancy assists with a headcount
of residents who will receive hot meals.

Next was a brief drop-off at Lakewood Town Square, followed by a stop in Brick. Finally, just as it was beginning to get dark, we reached an apartment complex in Jackson. Irene and her husband Rob greeted us warmly, and directed us to each unit.

Two of the men were just arriving home from work, and as we handed them their meals, they talked about one of their neighbors who had taken a sick day. As if on cue, he emerged from his apartment, and I recognized him as another former resident named Chris. We talked for a bit, and I learned he received a grant to study in Puetro Rico. We visited another couple, Lisa and Will, and then parted ways soon after.

On my way home, as the air grew noticeably colder, I thought about how wonderful it had been to see everyone. It was comforting to know they had a roof over their heads, and they had food in their bellies; some had jobs and new opportunities. But something still felt off. Perhaps it was seeing them outside the context of the community that gave me pause. Or maybe it was the thought of the "new couple" Linda and Joan had mentioned earlier that afternoon, who were homeless and scared with nowhere to sleep and only the clothes on their backs.

My family asked me how things went, and I replied that it was good to see everyone, but I was feeling tired and therefore would be getting take-out for dinner. One of my kids asked, in typical childlike fashion, "if you're so tired, how come you do it?"

I thought on that for a moment. There were many reasons, of course. Because while it's about providing food to the hungry in a physical way, it's also about feeding a different sort of hunger - one that I think lives in all of us. Because everyone, regardless of circumstances, deserves to know that they're thought of and cared for. It's about the fact that even though the powers that be in the township of their former community treated them as "out of sight, out of mind," they still matter.

That was my answer to him. "Because, those people matter."

He was satisfied with that, and went back to his toys and badgering his brother and other kid business.

But, since in that simple question he reminded me of why I do what I do, I was glad he asked.

Familiar Faces

Tomorrow I'll be accompanying some friends with pre-Thanksgiving food distribution to former Tent City residents.

Some are in hotels. Some, as part of the conditions of the encampment's closure, qualified for a year of free housing - and that year, mind you, is close to over. A few are still on the streets or elsewhere in the woods. I heard about one couple that has obtained housing and is now determined to give back by providing the homeless with propane and other supplies.

You'd think anyplace must be better than a tent in the woods. But when a community - a family of sorts - is torn asunder, any sense of victory is bittersweet at best.

I've been wondering - how do you gauge a homeless "success story?" Is it determined by housing alone, by employment, by their ability to give back? At what point do we ascertain that a once-homeless person is officially a productive member of society, or not counted among the "less fortunate?" And, if they're not progressing, or if they're backsliding, at what point do we draw a line in the sand between generosity and enabling?

There are no simple answers.

I firmly believe that, regardless of circumstances, no human being should have to go without food, clothing, or shelter. While self-reliance and autonomy are the ideal, there are some for whom it's either an excruciatingly long road or an altogether unattainable one. It doesn't matter if they are to blame for poor choices they've made, if they're the victims of a system that is stacked against the economically disadvantaged, or a combination of these things. And especially in the spirit of the holiday season, I don't feel it's my job to judge them.

The continental United States was hit by an arctic blast that resulted in record snowfall and freezing temperatures. At least one homeless person, who was living in a vacant home, has died as a result. No human being deserves that.

Tomorrow, they'll receive a reminder that wherever they happen to be on their life's journey, there are people who care about them enough to ensure that they have a warm meal on a cold night.

In the absence of their former community, it's the very least we can do.

There Ours Shall Go Singing

Performing at the Thanksgiving Fundraiser
for Kean University's "Be the Change" on
November 14, 2014 at 10th Street Live,
Kennilworth, NJ.

There's a lyric from one of the songs I performed last night ("Hands" by Jewel) that proclaims, "We will fight, not out of of spite / But someone must stand up for what's right / For where there's a man who has no voice, there ours shall go singing."

That is exactly what a bunch of us did last night when we came together to raise our voices (and some funds) for Kean University organization "Be the Change."

Accompanied by guitarist Joe Colucci, I came prepared with four songs: (1) the aforementioned cover of my favorite Jewel tune, (2) "City of Ruins" the Springsteen tune that accompanied a video montage of Tent City in the wake of its closing; (3) "Sugar Sand," my newest original song, and (4) "The Soldier," a song I wrote for a former Tent City resident.

What I didn't come prepared with were songs for an encore, and to my great delight, it turns out I actually needed them.

With both Joe and me drawing a complete blank, I announced to the audience that I was happy to take requests. Norma, who'd invited me to sing at the event, asked me to sing "Angel" by Sarah McLaughlin in honor of our mutual friend Doug. Of course, I gladly obliged.

And at the end of the evening, I joined the golden-voiced Gabrielle Rose for an impromptu rendition of "At Last" and an audience-interactive version of "Lean On Me."

The proceeds from the event will purchase hot Thanksgiving meals for the homeless of Newark and former residents of Lakewood's Tent City.

To all who participated: those who attended and donated, those who organized, and those who lent their talent: I need to personally commend you for your time during a season in which sentiments of home and hearth seem most paramount, and during which we are called to be thankful for all we have and mindful of those who go without. Our little corner of the world is much brighter because of you.

You, friends, are the miracle the world needs. THANK YOU.

If You're Not Outraged...

You'll have to excuse my tone for the time being, but upon reading about the folks in Fort Lauderdale who were arrested for feeding the homeless, I am absolutely seething right now.

This, friends, is our America. Where the accursed "affluenza" spares a rich, irresponsible brat from a prison sentence for killing four people after drinking and driving. Where the law permits citizens and police to shoot unarmed teenagers with minimal consequences. But where a compassionate individual can face a $500 fine and possible jail time for, as a friend of mine put it, using his own time and resources to do what our government won't.

I'm angry at people who call themselves "Christians" but align themselves with politics that exalt greed and legislators who blatantly oppress the poor.

I'm angry because even as people came out yesterday and exercised their right to vote, there is little comfort in the knowledge that both political parties are bought and paid for by corporations, the wealthy, and special interest groups. And there's no little blue pill for electile dysfunction.

I'm angry because the media would have our eyes fixated on the escapades of the Kartrashians and their ilk, and averted from our neighbor whose minimum wage job can't even cover the basics of living.

I'm angry because the average American is so engrossed in eking out a living and so fearful of making waves that they have little time, interest, or energy to be spent outside their comfort zone.

I'm angry because there are people who want change. There are some truly ingenious ideas about how to implement that change. But good ideas aren't enough. Because when folks come together with multiple, misaligned individual agendas and no unifying force, even the best and brightest ideas are doomed to fail.

Maybe, just maybe, this is a wake-up call. Perhaps through simply acting in accordance with compassion and humanity, we can be the change we seek. The real challenge is mobilizing concerned people with a clear goal, for a tangible purpose, And while that does not necessarily require power or stature, it DOES require a certain (rare) type of leadership - one that can instill an indivisible and uncompromising sense of purpose and unity.

In the meantime, we should keep feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, befriending the lonely and disenfranchised - without fear and without compromise. Because this is what our place in this world and our shared humanity requires of us.

If you're not outraged, you haven't been paying attention.

So, pay attention. And get angry. It's okay. Be careful to not let it consume you, but as fire burns the impurities from gold, let your indignation and your hunger for what's true and right burn through your fear and sculpt your soul in the shape of justice.

Go forth, friends, and let us continue to be the change we seek.

Womankind

My mom is moving to a new apartment at the end of the month, and this past Saturday we sat together sorting through the papers in her filing cabinet. In one folder, labeled "Memories," she discovered the following piece I wrote for The Catholic Advocate back in September of 1997, following the deaths of Princess Diana and Mother Teresa. Mom read it aloud, cried, proceeded to share it with my fourteen-year-old daughter, who also cried, and then insisted that I share it with my blog audience so you all could cry too. And, because when I reread it myself I found it extremely empowering - and also because I know better than to argue with an Italian mother - I agreed to post it.

Ladies, this one's for you.

WOMANKIND

We are not merely extensions of man. We are the essence of all being, of all nature. We are not merely caretakers, but taking care - of ourselves of others, and from others in a careful balance. We are children of God and givers of life, ideas, dreams, and adventures.

We will not succumb to labels, nor will we stand kindly in the presence of those who disrespect us in mind, heart, soul, or body. We will not resign ourselves to bitterness or envy for that which we lack. And we, who were made by Divine hands, shall not abhor our own beings. Every cell of our body breathes holiness and uniqueness.

We will embrace the other women in our lives as sisters, not enemies. We are as varied as the flowers of the field, yet one under God and as part of this earth. We form and bear life; we fortify it; by living, we beautify it; by dying, we allow it to continue.

We bear many burdens, speak the language of many hearts, and soothe many fears, careful not to lose ourselves in expectations, hopeless imaginings, or untruths. We surround ourselves with reality, and we face it with strength and dignity.

We are the hands of the saints. the great mothers who came before us, and of our mother earth. Our hands are made soft with tenderness for those in our care and rough from building and tearing down, stained from creating. They are clenched in rage, slapped away, clung to, and let go. Above all, with these hands, we mold our own souls. And joined together, those hands are Fate itself.

We stand young and old, rich and poor, with skin of earth, ivory, sane, clay, amber, and night. We are here, all Womankind, for a purpose. Seek it, sisters, with the help of the Lord, and know you are loved.

If These Walls Could Talk...

Welcome. Thank you for coming. If these walls could talk, this is what they'd say.

The story of how I came to be is intriguing, for certain. Upon these walls, now painted over, are the unseen fingerprints of many helping hands. Calloused hands, manicured hands, hands that were skilled with sheet rock and circular saws and paint rollers, and some, not so much, but all of them moved to labor by love. Within and just outside these walls, children painted under their parents' watchful eyes. The roof was masterfully laid by a retired schoolteacher who earned the nickname "Coach." One day, a homeless man who'd come to assist carefully and ever-so-bravely taught a woman how to operate a nail gun for the first time in her life. I'd laugh and tell you he still has all of his fingers and no stigmata-mimicking wounds.

I'd tell you the paintings that hang here were created by a kindhearted, determined man - the same man whose faith and compassion compelled him to do something different. Something innovative that would serve the less fortunate. So he raised not only his own voice, but the spirits and hope of those around him. He and other like-minded individuals formed a group known as "Catholics and Friends with a Heart for the Homeless," joined forces with a local engineer in whose mind (and driveway) I was conceived.

I would thank those who consented to showcase me, those who transported me, those whose curiosity brought them here this past week. I would ask for a place where, without the support of concrete blocks beneath my floorboards, I can settle onto the earth, wherever that might be, because even a house needs a home. 

I might speak to the earth and say, we're cool. I don't need much power, much water, much heat or much cooling. I won't disturb you. I'll be hardly any trouble at all. But should your seasons and ever-changing moods challenge me, I can take what you can dish out.

And I would speak to my future occupant. Perhaps my words would echo those etched on the Statue of Liberty, along the lines of giving me your tired and your poor. But as my modest girth cannot accommodate huddled masses. I would beckon that single soul in a quiet way. I would tell him, no matter where you've been and what sort of burden you've carried, you're safe now. You can close the door behind you and take a rest; you can look out at the stormy world through the windows of my soul (which are actual, not metaphorical windows). A cool drink, a warm meal, a soft bed, the greeting of a neighbor, are all yours. However far you may have wandered, you are no longer a stranger.

And ever grateful to serve my intended purpose, ever thankful to no longer stand empty, I would say, every moment, for whatever the duration of his stay might be, "welcome home."

If these walls could talk, that is what they would say.

Compass

The lesson of the airline instructions is one I need to keep relearning: always put your own oxygen mask on before you attempt to aid others with theirs. If you're particularly prone to following wherever your heart leads, it's far too easy to forget that you're just as worthy of care as the people you love and serve.

And, as my friend and fellow blogger Angela pointed out, sometimes it's necessary to lead your heart instead of following it.

That's what I've been trying to do. I'm focusing on all the positive things in my life: my kids, my job, and my health, to name a few. I'm excited about the Tiny Home exhibition next week. I went to an open blues jam after months of promising a friend I'd come check it out. I joined a women's wellness group. I went back to church.

Following the service, as coincidence would have it, I bumped into a former Tent City volunteer who was there with her son. We had a decidedly pleasant conversation; I had some of the Tiny Home flyers on me, and she expressed a lot of enthusiasm about it.

Then, she asked the whereabouts of some former Tent City residents.

And not surprisingly, even as I answered her to the best of my ability, the pain started to resurface. I smiled and carried on our discourse as the ache in my heart took hold.

I know it's all part of the process. I've experienced loss before; I've grieved before. This is not new to me. And I knew, after only a few months after I first set foot on my sojourn, how the story would end. I said to myself, it doesn't matter. I can handle it. I know I'm meant to be here. Bring it on.

Despite those fleeting moments of sadness, I don't regret it one bit.

Experiencing loss and pain in life is inevitable. But how we handle it - how we use it to make us stronger as individuals, more closely aligned with Truth, and more connected to one another - is what matters.

Whenever I feel the darkness creep in, I don't fight it. I embrace it. I experience it. I let it speak. But then, I release it, and I refocus. Because one of the dangers of following your heart is that sometimes it would rather entertain the comfort of the familiar - even if the familiar is painful - than endure the challenge of the unknown.

Whatever lies ahead, I am fully prepared to face it with strength, courage, grace, and hope. I pray that those whose paths have crossed with mine are able to do the same.

Today, that is the direction in which I will lead my heart.

Unchained

My work with the addicted and mentally ill prior to my sojourn into Tent City prepared me at least somewhat for what I would encounter there.

Somewhat - but not completely.

It certainly didn't surprise me that some residents would ask me for money; I never carried cash, so refusing wasn't a problem. Some asked me for rides; again, unless I knew for certain that it was somewhere legitimate like Social Services or the grocery store, I wasn't about to cave in. And over time, I was able to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

Because although there were plenty of folks there who were merely victims of tough economic times or personal tragedy, there were also people for whom manipulation tactics were second nature - a survival mechanism in which fellow human beings were merely a means to an end.

Certainly, Jesse (not his real name) was not one of them. He was smart, articulate, industrious, kindhearted, and seemed as sincere as a person could be. 

Jesse was not just a resident. He became a friend, and a very dear one at that. Although most of our interaction was within the context of Tent City, we'd meet up outside of camp as well. There was never a shortage of laughter or interesting conversations, but we spoke a lot through quiet times as well. 

Over time, I realized something was amiss.

In particular, I started noticing that our friendship seemed dramatically one-sided. If he asked me for anything - and even when he didn't - I was there like a soldier at the ready. But if I reached out to him and wanted to talk, he'd reach back begrudgingly at best, or not at all.

I knew of the term "co-dependency," and swore I'd never be that person. But the signs were all there. The grandiosity and magical thinking. The refusal to address his emotions, particularly the anger that always seemed to simmer just beneath the surface. The preoccupation with power and attention. The abdication of personal responsibility. And because I believed he truly needed me, I kept justifying my enabling behavior.

Releasing him was a slow process, but it got easier with time. It started with one bold step: I said "no" to him. I told him that if he wanted to engage in self-destructive behavior, that was his decision, but that I'd have no part in it.

Then, I indicated that I was tired of watching him use and hurt people - myself included.

Ultimately, I made the decision to stop reaching out to him altogether.

How badly I want to tell the folks who continue to enable him, STOP. Stop getting dragged into his game. Let him start taking responsibility for his own life. But I also know the feeling of being needed, that illusion that they're the exception to his machinations, and the belief that by "helping" him, they can change him. Those are powerful emotions, and can themselves be as strong as any drug.

Still, the truth remains that if you feel like you're being used, you probably are.

And sometimes loving someone means loving them from a distance. 

I hope that if you've gotten this far, you will keep this man in your thoughts and prayers. I do, every day. Because loving from a distance does not mean giving up hope altogether. Miracles do happen. People can and do change. I've seen it.

I pray for all those who love a user/addict, and who have had to exercise tough love. Even when it meant taking the risk of losing their loved one altogether.

And, dear readers, I ask you to pray for me as well.  

Thank you, and God bless.

Outside the Box

Today an acquaintance of mine asked if I'd send her the link to some of my recent songs, and I was happy to oblige.

Those songs I sent her, for better or worse, remind me of three things: One, that something beautiful can come out of any situation. Two, that my Tent City sojourn (one resident in particular, for those who don't know) inspired me and transformed me more than anything else in my life ever has. And three, that I came there looking for something besides just inspiration, and got more than I bargained for.

I discovered within a relatively short time what the place had become, largely as a result of Lakewood Township usurping Minister Steve's authority and having him arrested for trying to kick out troublemakers. But my heart still told me to stay. So I tried to narrow my focus as much as possible. I didn't have much to give, but I did have time, a listening ear, a lot of love, and my own need to connect with others. And if someone there needed to feel less alone, no matter who they were or in what way they needed me to be present to them, I knew that's where I'd be.

Because I've personally never been homeless - I've never even slept outdoors save for one time - but I've been lonely and depressed to the point of complete despair. I've felt disconnected from humanity on a profound level the way many homeless people have. I thought my experience, paired with an open heart and determined attitude, put me in a unique position to help others.

I tried walking away once, in early May. Then in June, when the bulldozers started coming in full force, I returned and stuck around until the day the very last resident was evicted from the camp.

And even after that, I couldn't let go.

I always scoffed at the people who cling to an illusion just for the sake of having something to believe in. I thought myself intelligent and insightful enough to be immune to it. As it turns out, I wasn't.

Unfortunately, knowing the truth is not the same as speaking it. It was only in shedding my own fear and acknowledging my own insecurities and shortcomings that I was able to open my eyes and raise my voice.

One by one, the fears dissipated. The fear of saying "no." The fear of being judged for my vulnerability, intentions, and even gullibility. The fear of losing my sense of purpose. The fear of people seeing MY truth: that no, I am not a saint. I was just as much in need as the people I served. In some ways, I still am.

But, lesson learned. I will continue my advocacy efforts, supporting people who genuinely want help and friendship, and in turn recalibrating the compass of my own heart toward not only compassion, but also humility, authenticity, and yes, truth.

And hoping above all that in some small way, I did at least some good there.

Micro Homes for the Homeless

Tom O'Malley applies spackle
to the ceiling of "The Angelo"

Clockwise from right: Volunteers Frank, John, and Tom work
on the interior of Tiny Home model, "The Angelo"

The kitchen counter
awaits installation.

Today I went to Point Pleasant to check on "The Angelo," and there's been a good deal of progress since my last visit back in July. The siding has been fully installed, and the bright red door adds a nice touch. Volunteers were hard at work on the interior this time around, and I was able to chat a bit with Tom O'Malley, the former Old Bridge Councilman who has been actively promoting Tiny Homes as a solution to homelessness.

Video footage of the house can be found here.

Website for information on Micro Houses for the Homeless in Ocean County, NJ.

Take These Broken Wings: Part 2

Upon arrival early yesterday morning, I was a little bit disappointed that Michael and Marilyn had moved the bed off the front porch. I was sincerely hoping to have the opportunity to sleep outdoors, something I’ve never done, save for that one time on the sidewalks of New York City. But considering the stifling Southern heat and humidity, I think it's for the best. They did set up a little “dorm” in the back room, which consists of three cots and the guinea pig cage, and of course the little frogs that attach themselves to the window when it gets dark. Add to that the squirrel, the starling, two pigeons and two roosters that currently occupy the living room, and it’s quite the scene.

Some things are exactly the same as they were back in New Jersey. Marilyn bustles about with her chores; Michael strums his guitar and serenades whatever creature is in earshot. Sometimes Percy Shelly (the starling) chirps along. Su and Kevin plan for Kevin's radio show tomorrow, which will be live broadcast from Wilmington, NC and somehow involve the Ice Bucket Challenge. Which, of course, incites Michael to launch into a half-monologue, half-debate about the effects of a vegan diet on ALS.

I got to meet a Facebook friend, Celeste, in person for the first time. We introduced her to Su's version of a traveling gnome, a mannequin named Lilly. In the evening, the gang watched The Birdman of Alcatraz and Marilyn made stuffed shells (with vegan sausage, Daiya and tofu “ricotta”).

I also found out the guinea pigs’ names: Wilbur, Orville, and Ferlinghetti. So now I at least I know who to scold at night for keeping me awake. And if it was entirely up to me, Wilbur and Orville would be Ginsburg and Kerouac. Hands (or paws?) down.

At the Florence First SDA Church this morning, the pastor dressed up like the Apostle Paul, read Philippians 4, and likened our perceived “goodness” in the eyes of God to a child proudly revealing a dirty diaper to its parent.

But he also shared a story about how his daughter fell ill while serving as a missionary in the Philippines and, by God’s grace, they were able to obtain the visa stamp on her passport against all odds so she was able to fly back to the States for medical care.

Michael, Su and I sat down to lunch in the church hall afterward. A toddler with red hair, whose name I learned was Levi, caught my eye. He was looking in my direction and playing peek-a-boo with a box of little toy cars. He’d peer on the left side of the box, then cover his face again, then peer over the box, then attempt to balance the box against his forehead, then hitting the tray of his high chair to knock it down. I was mesmerized.

I approached him and his family, and we played for a spell while his parents went up to the buffet table to get food. We raced a few convertibles, a cement mixer, and a bright orange hatchback. The hatchback won by a nose.

When Levi’s parents returned, I returned to my seat next to Michael. He set his copy of “The Vegetarianism of Jesus Christ” down on the bench beside us.

“Do you know what Genesis 1:29 says?”

I shook my head. “Three years of theology studies, and I have no idea whatsoever.”

“It’s where God tells us what we should be eating. ‘I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for meat.’ Meaning, of course, food. Not flesh.”

“The words ‘meat’ and ‘food’ are used interchangeably throughout the Bible. Depending on the translation.”
Michael’s smile broadened. “Exactly. Exactly right. There’s another one I like. Hebrews 5:13. ‘For everyone that partaketh of milk is without experience of the word of righteousness, for he is a babe.’”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“What are the Mets for anyway? Nothing but a baseball team.”

I laughed. “The verse doesn’t actually mean people who literally drink milk. It means they’re still an infant in terms of their faith.” He went on to relay a story about a woman who had visited Tent City, whom he described as unusually tall, and her reaction to the Genesis verse. “She responded with, ‘What? God wants me to be vegan?’ I wasn’t telling her to be vegan. All I told her was to read the verse. I told her if that’s what you got from it, then that’s what he’s telling you.”

“That’s generally how it works.”

“But people don’t want to hear it. Even though it’s God’s way. Even though if everyone ate a plant-based diet, it would solve a host of problems worldwide. Personal health, pollution, poverty, all of it.”

“If someone’s not ready to hear it, or they’re in denial, you can beat them over the head with it. They won’t listen. They prefer to stay in their comfort zone.”

“Ha. Not comfort zone. Addiction zone. I know a lady with cancer who said she’d rather die than give up pork.”

“For some people, change is harder than for others. I know for me, it’s been a process. It started when I became a lot more mindful about what I was eating, so I just started to eat less overall. Then I started cutting out most of the meat. And last week, when I was in New York, I realized I’d hit a milestone. I passed by Dallas BBQ in Times Square and thought about pulled pork for lunch – something I used to love. But then, the thought of a pig suffering turned my stomach. So it’s a slow climb. I figure as long as I keep my eye on the mark, I’m already better off than I was when I started out. Dropped about forty pounds since December, for one thing. Whether or not you reach your intended goal or level of achievement, the journey alone helps you grow.”

We sat for a moment before realizing they were getting ready to turn off the lights, then headed to Su’s car. I watched Su and Michael for a moment as they walked together. They looked like they could have easily been father and daughter.

Take These Broken Wings: Part 1

“So what’s become of the people there?”

I took a long, thoughtful drink of coffee before looking up at my high school friend, Joe, with whom I’d met up prior to my trip.

“Some got a year of free housing, some are in hotels, and some, I’m not sure.” My throat suddenly felt a bit dry. “But the couple we’re visiting this weekend in South Carolina – they’re doing quite well. They took care of the animals in Tent City. Chickens, cats, pigeons, guinea pigs –“

“Wait a second. Guinea pigs?”

“Yeah. People would come and drop off stray animals, and Michael and Marilyn would take care of them.”

Joe sat back and shook his head. “They dropped off stray animals to people who can hardly take care of themselves. What are people thinking?”

That it was a dumping ground, I thought to myself. I recalled the day I’d come to camp in late May and seen the dumpster overflowing, whereas it had been virtually empty only two days prior. I learned that non-residents were taking their trash to Tent City and piling it into the dumpsters there. Dumpsters that, in the coming weeks, would be filled with demolished tents and their contents. A dumping ground for people, animals, and whatever else the outside world considered refuse.

Joe and I parted ways moments later. I didn’t have to be at Su’s house until later that evening, so I decided to make a pit stop.

The “No Trespassing” signs were visible from the main road, but there weren’t many cars around as it was, let alone police. So I felt safe. I put on my blinker and turned onto the dirt road.

It was the first time I’d been there in the daylight. The structures were gone. Not a soul – human or otherwise – was in sight. But there were remnants. I parked in what used to be the middle of camp, my only point of reference the naked bulletin board that was still standing, still with an announcement written in dry erase marker, faded to the point where I could barely make it out.

Leaving the car radio on as I got out to take a look around helped me feel less alone. Shards of glass dotted the loose gray sand. There was ample proof that the place was once alive: a stuffed animal here, empty water bottles there. A pile of plastic forks, a partnerless shoe; a set of purple rosary beads. Even the makeshift shrine with the tall wooden cross and the plastic Christmas lawn ornaments had been destroyed. It was as I’d expected: a veritable graveyard.

Michael and Marilyn Berenzweig had left Tent City months before the demolition, back in February. As public works machines lumbered about tearing down vacant tents, we had gathered in the chapel for a small celebration the day before they left. I sang alongside Michael as he played Beatles and Everly Brothers songs on the guitar. Marilyn had chosen to stay behind to pack and prepare for the next day’s sojourn. A volunteer, fellow animal activist, and professional truck driver, Su Schindler, had found them a home in South Carolina, one with ample property on which to keep their little menagerie.

So when Su contacted me a few days ago and asked if I wanted to accompany her on a visit there, my answer was an emphatic “yes.” Because, honestly, I was losing hope. As vacant and desolate as those woods felt, the void in my heart felt even wider, and seemingly with fewer tangible remnants. My sense of purpose and belonging, once seemingly etched in certainty, was faded.

At that moment, I wasn’t sure why I’d gone back. Perhaps solely to remind me that I had nowhere to go but forward.

Keeper of the Grail

The sounds of Time Square, a welcome reprieve from the ordinary, fail to assuage the sorrow that hangs heavy in my heart today.

Robin Williams as Parry in "The Fisher King"

For all the disdain I express for celebrity culture, I did have a particular affection for Robin Williams. I was five years old and watched "Mork & Mindy" religiously. I'd seen virtually all of his movies. I admired his charity work and had heard about his struggles with addiction.

When a larger-than-life presence is gone from this world, their absence is felt. And generally, any time I hear of a suicide, my heart anguishes.

And of course, there's the inexplicable sense of knowing the darkness that can lurk behind the most vibrant smile. The eyes that have seen a thousand faces, but find solace in none.

Robin Williams was not only renowned for his charity work with organizations like Comic Relief, and for testifying before the Senate panel on homelessness, but also portrayed a homeless man in the movie "The Fisher King." In one scene, he speaks of the legend that spurred his character's own quest:

It begins with the king as a boy, having to spend the night alone in the forest to prove his courage so he can become king. Now while he is spending the night alone he's visited by a sacred vision. Out of the fire appears the holy grail, symbol of God's divine grace. And a voice said to the boy, "You shall be keeper of the grail so that it may heal the hearts of men." But the boy was blinded by greater visions of a life filled with power and glory and beauty. And in this state of radical amazement he felt for a brief moment not like a boy, but invincible, like God, so he reached into the fire to take the grail, and the grail vanished, leaving him with his hand in the fire to be terribly wounded. Now as this boy grew older, his wound grew deeper. Until one day, life for him lost its reason. He had no faith in any man, not even himself. He couldn't love or feel loved. He was sick with experience. He began to die. One day a fool wandered into the castle and found the king alone. And being a fool, he was simple minded, he didn't see a king. He only saw a man alone and in pain. And he asked the king, "What ails you friend?" The king replied, "I'm thirsty. I need some water to cool my throat". So the fool took a cup from beside his bed, filled it with water and handed it to the king. As the king began to drink, he realized his wound was healed. He looked in his hands and there was the holy grail, that which he sought all of his life. And he turned to the fool and said with amazement, "How can you find that which my brightest and bravest could not?" And the fool replied, "I don't know. I only knew that you were thirsty."

Strangely enough, I was pondering this story just as I was approached by a man who asked me for something to eat.

There was a McDonald's a few feet away. I bought him a cheeseburger, because I only knew that he was hungry.

Even more strangely, in doing so, I was the one who felt like a wound was being healed.

Reflections on "The Right To Be Home"

 For the past two weeks, I've been assisting my friend and fellow homeless advocate, Steven Kuchinsky, with a video entitled "Home Is a Human Right." It not only proposes solutions surrounding Tiny Homes and sustainable communities, but also the very concept of what "home" is all about.

My last blog entry talked about past, present, and future as components of home, and Steven's presentation touched upon the same. He cited the interconnection of human beings throughout the course of time, the present state of the economy and its effect on that connection, and a future in which sustainable community living helps us reconnect.

One theme he presents throughout the video really hit home (pun intended): "We need to be in a place of connection and belonging to be fully human."

Teepee in Lakewood, NJ Tent City

That statement speaks to a major problem in modern society. We have grown, and continue to grow, increasingly isolated from one another. Technology has made communication easier and more convenient, but less personal. We buy into egocentric attitudes and a culture of fear that prevents us from reaching out to those in need. We have a plethora of distractions, whether constructive or destructive, that hinder or altogether replace human connection. We live in a society that has reduced human beings to little more than commodities, our worth measured by our perceived usefulness. The gaps between socioeconomic classes, political ideologies, and religious beliefs widen and divide us even further.

Steven asserts that there is a homeless person within all of us, and that by further isolating and judging the less fortunate, we are further isolating ourselves. And I strongly believe that. Because who among us has never felt that profound sense of loneliness and isolation that disconnects us from our inner circle - and ultimately, from our own humanity? If you have not, you are indeed among the very, very fortunate few.

As you watch and share this video, may it serve as a reminder to never lose sight of the Home within ourselves, and to never forget to seek it in others as well.

A Time to Build...

Blueprint for proposed Tiny Home community

I heard "Turn! Turn! Turn!" on the radio the other day. For those who aren't aware, that song is based on Ecclesiastes 3:1-8, which reminds us that "To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven." The verse that has branded itself onto my heart as of late is, "a time to break down, and a time to build up."

Because quite frankly, I feel like I've seen enough breaking down. Far more than I would have ever liked to see in the course of my life.

As the Township was in the process of closing Tent City, my friend Jack Ballo took video footage of the demolition of a Tent City resident's home. I was there to witness it. And many more like it. Back in February, a number of vacant tents were torn down and many more marked for demolition. Dale's shanty was knocked down only weeks before Sam's. I saw the chapel dismantled piece by piece. I saw fellow human beings systematically stripped of what few belongings they had and scrambling for answers. Ultimately, the camp was declared closed and the last of the residents - Minister Steve himself - was evicted.

So when the opportunity arose to start building up, I seized it with both hands and my whole heart.

An Ocean County architectural engineer, in partnership with philanthropist Tom O'Malley, was seeking skilled laborers to assist with the construction of a micro-house model called "The Angelo" (named for former Tent City resident Angelo Villanueva, featured in Destiny's Bridge). My uncle, John Lisa, who has extensive construction experience and who has worked with Habitat for Humanity, lent a hand to the project. A few days later, Minister Steve did the same; I got to paint some of the siding and learned how to (ever so tentatively) handle a nail gun. There's still work to be done, but I'm happy to say the little house is about a week from completion. Now, it's just a matter of finding a permanent - or at least semi-permanent - location for it.

In these quiet moments, the past, present, and future weave together with perfect clarity.

I carry in my heart fond memories of Tent City, most of all the sense of family and community I felt there. I recall moments of celebration and times of sorrow that were equally meaningful because they were shared with others. Because despite our differences, we'd always manage to find some sort of common ground.

Today, in my own home, I feel the gentle breeze on this temperate August afternoon through the open window. I relish the warmth of a recent visitor's smile. I listen to my children's voices and neighbors passing time.

I envision new memories being made. I imagine helping a homeless friend move their belongings into their new, tiny house. I see myself decorating doors for the holidays. I picture gatherings in a little community room. I make plans and see opportunities to open minds and change hearts.

All of these put together are what is meant by "home."

And that is where my heart is.

Support Destiny's Bridge!

Jack Ballo's award-winning film "Destiny's Bridge" explores not only the realities of homelessness, but proposed solutions outside of the traditional shelter system.

The documentary follows the story of the homeless minister who stands up to a New Jersey town that is evicting him, along with 80 other people living in the woods. Police raids and arrests are met by charges of harassment in this explosive documentary that questions the human rights of the poor while exploring new ideas for housing the homeless. With the town closing in and eviction on their doorstep, the homeless set out to create their own self-sustained shelter called Destiny's Bridge, that provides community, ownership and rehabilitation.

We learn in the film that people whose lives have been taken over by poverty, addiction, depression and mental illness don't have the resources to be rehabilitated and to get their lives back together like most people can who have family support, healthcare and financial stability. Prior to its closing, Tent City of Lakewood, NJ, not only provided basic necessities like food and shelter to the homeless, but also the most important elements missing from their lives: love, family and community.

On Thursday, July 17th, the Destiny's Bridge film started a 30 day Indiegogo fundraising campaign.  The documentary premiered on August 8, 2013 and went on to have a successful film tour that included theaters, colleges and community screenings across NJ. However, the film cannot go into distribution and reach a national audience due to music licensing and other legal issues.  This campaign to raise funds will be our only opportunity to continue screening and sharing the film's message about "New Ideas for Housing the Homeless."

There is a lot we can learn from Tent City and this film needs to get out to people throughout the country.  If we can raise the finishing funds needed for the film we will bring it out on a national film tour, offer it on DVD/BluRay and have VOD distribution available. We will also use funds to promote our Outreach Program bringing awareness to the Destiny's Bridge concept for housing the homeless.

Please support the campaign by either making a donation or sharing posts that will help us to spread the word.  There are homeless camps and tent cities in most states in the country. Help us get this message and campaign information out to people throughout the US who care about homeless people and the nationwide crisis we are experiencing.  Small donations will help, Indiegogo is about getting large numbers of people to make small donations.  You will also receive a gift for your donation. Destiny's Bridge DVDs, T-shirt, posters and other perks are included with donations. Donate small and spread the word big and you will make a difference in the homeless cause in this country!

"Closing time, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end..."

Two days before my forty-first birthday, the page was turned on a major chapter in my life: Tent City of Lakewood, NJ, where I was a volunteer for eight months, was demolished and closed down by the Township. (tentcityvoices.blogspot.com)

I was never a resident of Tent City myself, but its closure had a major impact on me. I've never pitched a tent, slept outdoors, or been camping in my life, but throughout the process, I was grieving as if it was MY home that had been bulldozed. It's been said that "home is where the heart is," and words cannot express just how much I believe it.

What I experienced personally speaks volumes about the reality of homelessness. That home is so much more than just a roof over one's head. It's the sense of having a place to go to where you're accepted and loved for who you are, not judged...the feeling of safety and security amid storms (both the physical and proverbial types)...the people that surround you, who are present to you, and for whom you are present.

I came to that place in the woods one autumn day with a bag of apples, a case of water, and an open heart. Indeed, amid those makeshift shanties, in the spiritual sense, I myself found Home.

And the new journey begins, I will continue to do whatever it takes to build Home for those in need.