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.