As of this writing, I am on day 7 of a 6 week stint at a pulmonary rehabilitation facility.
Last night was an event known as “Coffee House.” It took place in a generic, over-lit cafeteria style room that was made all the more depressing by the tiny gestures of decorative cheer added by the well-intentioned staff.
An inspirational message taped to the wall.
A balloon tied to a folding chair.
Somewhere a Dollar Store streamer that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging limp as if injured.
All of us gathered there were quiet, standing around as awkward and vulnerable as children at a school dance. Those who were most profoundly ill, those for whom recovery was out of reach and who lived permanently in the residence, had been pushed up near a three-piece band that was getting ready to perform. These people sat in complicated, tongue-controlled wheelchairs, and at a casual glance appeared fused into the metal of their containers– their mouths open, faces rigid and untranslatable. The rest of us, those attached to oxygen tanks and those not, just looked lost and a little sad, like we’d long given up hope of being asked to dance. You felt what was missing rather than what was there—and it seemed as if in each breath we exhaled a shallow puff of loss, all then gathering together like a weather system to form a heavy, oppressive cloud that enveloped us.
It was heartbreaking.
The band, a kind of folk outfit that was comprised of a woman who looked like a community organizer on tambourine, a bongo player in a Toronto Blue Jays cap, and an electric keyboardist who tried to project energy by wearing a Hawaiian shirt, began to play. At first the music seemed like it was designed to be little more than sound, just a “something” to help fill the emptiness of the situation, but then the woman began to sing I’ll Fly Away. Her voice was beautiful and true, and everybody in the coffee house fell into it.
When the shadows of this life have gone
I’ll fly away
Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly
I’ll fly away
And that voice, that song, it seemed to come out of us, too. And for a few moments we were all living beyond our mortal cages, we were all soaring– everything effortless, everything weightless, everything beautiful.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MNM0OO_iVI
The woman who mops the floor of my room is so fair and blonde as to be practically transparent. I am somehow embarrassed whenever she comes in and has to clean around me, and I hope to compensate for this weird power imbalance by being excessively friendly, and she’s kind enough to indulge my need for small talk. She has a thick eastern European accent and far away, sad eyes hidden behind blocky glasses. As she wipes down the plastic casings of the rails on my bed, she says, “Look, you see?” I don’t, and have to look closer. “My superior leaves little marks with a pen so she knows if I have cleaned properly or not. You see it now?” I nod as she wipes it away and say something I think is funny and disparaging about her superior. “No, it is her job, the cleaning must get completed and she must make sure it is so. We all must do our jobs.”
I feel like a child in the face of those words. This middle-aged woman who used to be a professor of accounting in the former Yugoslavia, now in a scratchy blue uniform cleaning floors in a hospital a million miles from all that she had known and loved and earned. My heart could break for her– her country vanished, her life now so improbable and alien. And she looks at me. She knows what I’m thinking, or at least she thinks she might know. She pauses for a moment, “It is true that life is hard, but we must live it, no? We must live it,” she says, as if we had both been forced to leave our native land.
Two years or more, probably.
Stepping out of the car at the Port Stanley beach, I was hit by the smell of deep friers and sunscreen. Beachgoers played volleyball or tried to bronze themselves for the perfection that the cities they lived-in demanded, and children, like radiant beasts, played– their happiness a wildfire burning along the surf. Overhead the gulls flew, their shadows rippling along the sand, a kind of double life,
and then, looking forward, there was Lake Erie stretching out as far as you could see until it became sky.
Like the pilgrim I was, I walked down to the water. Standing up to my knees, an oxygen tank slung over my shoulder, I closed my eyes and held out my arms, waiting for something to wash through me and lift all the scars, bruises and fears of the last couple of years free from my body.
It seemed like a perfunctory, symbolic act rather than a felt one though, and I trudged back to our towels feeling a little disappointed. As I looked around I noticed a blind woman sitting nearby. Pale, thin and out of fashion, she looked like she had been confined to an indoor life of illness and uncertainty, and that this, this outing was a step outside of the protected, comfort zone she typically inhabited. But she did not look happy. She sat in a rigid, defensive posture, her face turned away from things, her fingers worrying some rosary beads she kept clutched in her hands.
I wondered if she was praying.
I wondered if I, too, had been praying when I stood in the water.
An older woman who must have been her mother sat next to her. She looked quietly off at the lake. And so the two of them stared off at separate horizons, the silence between them hanging there like a shared, unspoken disappointment.
After about fifteen minutes had passed they got up to leave. As delicate as a geisha, the blind girl slipped her feet into the sandals her mother had bought for her, and quietly taking her arm, began the journey toward the parking lot, never a word uttered between them.
As she moved from the hot sun and shifting sand of the beach to the level cement and cooling shade under a restaurant’s awning, she would not have seen the elderly and infirm arrayed there. Sitting silently in wheelchairs, each one with an attendant behind them, they all stared off toward the water. Bodies twisted and agonized, mouths hanging open and useless, it was as if they were waiting for a blessing or miracle. And the blind girl, so quietly it felt like she could have been floating, passed through them in her darkness like a saint through flame. It felt at that moment that a message was being delivered, and that everybody there that day, summoned by something just beyond the water, were gathered to receive it, but try as we might, it would elude our mortal grasp.
I often pass Hand Job Park as I take our dog Heidi for a walk, and as fate would have it, I’ve become friendly with Billy, one of the men who spends time there.
Because I have really lousy teeth and travel with an oxygen tank, Billy believes that I am a reformed crackhead, and am thus something of an inspiration to him, evidence that you can turn your life around and one day inhabit a beautiful family. As such, he’s always asking me for advice, and I have taken on the unofficial role as Billy’s Life Coach.
Every Sunday, I walk down to the park, talk to him about his week, and give him a written list of daily goals for the next week. This was my last list:
Monday:
Find public fountain and wash clothes.
Scavenge with your head, not your heart. Look for healthy, nutritional garbage opportunities such as a discarded smoothie, for instance!
Say it out loud to yourself, again and again, “My name is Billy and I will Scavenge Smart!”
Walk for at least six hours.
Learn how to tune guitar.
Affirmation of the day: THERE IS A GIFT FOR ME IN EVERYTHING THAT I EXPERIENCE.
Tuesday:
When busking, perhaps do it in front of Shopper’s instead of the liquor store? Why tempt yourself? Remember Billy, GOOD CHOICES.
Stay away from Hyena’s Old Lady. Remember what happened last time she gave you a hand job?
Walk for at least six hours.
Practice guitar for an hour.
Affirmation of the day: THE VOICES IN MY HEAD ARE NOT REAL. I AM IN CONTROL.
Wednesday:
Today I would like you to go some place quiet (perhaps the Green P Carpark) and center yourself with some light stretching and meditation. Be mindful, Billy. Feel the sun upon your skin and hear the birds singing. You are not separate from nature, but are a perfect and integral component of nature.
Surrender to oneness. Think of everything in your life (guitar, Bo Jackson football jersey, etcetera) that you are grateful for and carry that with you throughout the day like it was a weapon in your backpack.
Remember to walk at least six hours.
Practice guitar for an hour.
Affirmation of the day: THE PAST IS OVER AND MY FUTURE IS NOW!
Thursday:
While busking, take an interest in the lives of those passing by. Remember, they’re people, too. However, remember not to take too intense an interest in the lives of the nearby Sorority girls.
Although you may mean “spicy” as a compliment, they may not take it that way.
Just because you’re homeless doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of society. Make inquiries into joining Choir! Choir! Choir!
Walk for six and a half hours.
Practice guitar for one.
Love yourself for twenty-four. : )
Affirmation of the day: EVERY MOMENT I STEP INTO THE WONDERFUL UNKNOWN
Friday:
Treat yourself to a nice wash in a public fountain.
Feel rejuvenated, in love with yourself and the world around you!
As today marks the opening of the Olympic Games in Rio,
why not jazz up business with a Brazilian theme? When strumming your guitar, add some latin flair! Try to scavenge for food that is unique to Brazil, and if one of the voices in your head speaks Portuguese, have a conversation with it!
Today is a reward day, so score some dope or booze if you can and celebrate the beautiful life that is Billy!
Affirmation of the day: REMEMBER TO GIVE HAND JOBS AND NOT JUST RECEIVE THEM!
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