The silence of the Creator is thunderous,
Drowning out everything else,
And hiding in endless creativity.
—Thomas Keating, “Out of a Stone”
I may have exaggerated or possibly lied in order to feel better about myself. Maybe we all do that at certain times of necessity in our lives. Create an unconscious lie that will possibly never be shared with anyone, ever. This lie will assist or develop an internal road for ones future thoughts about oneself. Its not always a good thing in the long run, but in the short term becomes a tree to grasp onto in the midst of what feels like a tsunami.
“To be human is to be whole, but to fail to see this wholeness.”
― Thomas Lloyd Qualls
I like disaster shows, and news reports. I find them riveting. When peoples lives are in the balance, when life is hanging by a thread, I cant look away. The school shooting at Columbine, 911, bombing of Baghdad, Desert Storm, the tsunami in Sri Lanka and Thailand, etc, etc. The manner in which news orgs chase after these stories means that more and more one just has to wait to see more real time life tragedies or miraculous salvations. The camera doesnt lie. If we can see it, we can depend on it.
I always told my self that I was a healthy person. Never had many physical illnesses in my teens or twenties. That set the lie rolling down the hill. The momentum carried it for years. It wasnt true though. An investigative report by any reputable news show would show what lay beneath the surface. 60 Minutes, Dateline, 20/20, would all be able to reveal the Depression, anxiety, addiction, unhealthy family relationships, stress induced mononucleosis, that plagued my body and mind. This was just my teens and twenties. I started to smoke on a whim at 28. Couldnt escape that addiction for 15 years.
My outer life was active. I enjoyed sports and physical activity of various types into my late 30s. Most of my relationships were very shallow including with my family of origin. No one really knew what I was really going through.
Men are really good at categorization. We divide our life up into parts. One here, one there, another over here and on and on. Experts at making our inner lives accessible to only the most tenacious investigator. Even our most intimate connections with other humans like spouses, parents and siblings rarely know the holistic machinations of our hearts and minds. Some might half jokingly say that there isnt much to uncover, pretty empty and simple to figure out the average man. “What you see is what you get.”
But, there is tons of interior life that is kept away from prying eyes. Even our own. Here you are now, you can write this down, take it to the bank:
“Men. are. deep.”
(Keep in mind this comes from an INFP-T)
But we can create a false reality about our lives and bury it in a vault never to be touched. This what I did regarding my general health. I categorized it into sections and did not let the sections interact and come together. If all the walls were ever taken down and the condition viewed “holistically…completely…inclusively…it may be too much to lift, to manage, to observe, to accept within the parameters of the categorical structure of the story of my health that I had created.
Calling it a lie is maybe a little harsh. Its part of my story about myself. Stories change over time. They may stay rigid and immovable, impermeable and indestructable to the end of our brief time here. Or they may flex, bend, move with the flow of time, events, pain and tragedy. Its not like I havnt been given enough warnings, or clues, or information over the course of my life, but one can choose to remain asleep because it feels easier.
As I have been dealing with physical weakness in the last few days, thanks to some gall stones that have developed, I can see that I must finally embrace the truth of my health. Its the last step on a long journey.
The truth is that we are whole. I, or rather we exist as whole systems. Every part of us effects every other part. There is no separation between the parts of us. Mind, body, emotions, spirit. They all were designed or evolved to work together, in community.
And we are connected to each other, and to the earth and to the cosmos. There is no separation.
So. I will learn to lean into this truth fully. To live its truth.
To break down my mindset or categorization, compartmentalization.
To ask my wife and others for assistance in seeing better; seeing and living holistically.
To see and act holistically when making decisions on my mental, emotional, physical and spiritual health.
To understand that family, community, neighbourhood, town, city, country, the whole world affects me and I effect the world.
We are one
“The original meaning of healing was “to make whole”. We can be healed of our separateness through our contact with something whole. We can know we are not separate from the whole, and we can know the universe through knowing ourselves.”
― Kabir Edmund Helminski,
A Holistic Change For The Better Post Diagnosis
— Read on savannahwall.wordpress.com/2019/12/26/five-things-i-changed-in-my-health-lifestyle-post-diagnosis/
“It’s not enough that you love them, they must know that you love them.“Word For The Day… — awisewomansjourney
‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’
The old man turns and gathers up his excess saliva/snot with a combination snort, gurgle and a contortion of the mouth. He lets it fly with abandon; his lack of concern for the surroundings is utterly complete. The spittle lands with an audible plop on the semi clean linoleum floor beside his cot. A resting place that is a balance between a prison bed and a fold out army cot. Simple and impersonal, well worn blankets that have covered many bodies before.
He groans with every movement. His body feels weaker and stiffer than he can recall. Slowly he shifts his legs to the edge of the cot. He would like to stand up and make the short distance to the washroom that is only a few feet away. But the cot is too low and his legs too weak. He grunts indicipherably to the air. Grunts again louder this time. A young man in a nearby cot is roused by the voice in the semi darkness. “Gotta Pee” in Cree, brings the younger man to action. “I’m coming” “Fuck, Allan it’s too fuckin early!”
He gets up and aids in maneuvering the old man to his feet. Gets the walker positioned so Allan can start shuffling towards his goal. There are times lately when it is just too far and not enough time. It can’t wait for the rest of his body to catch up. There are the diapers that sit in a discreet unmarked box in the nearby washroom. That will be the next step, soon.
The morning discomfort in his joints does not let up. After his business is wrapped up, he slowly shuffles, pushes his walker through the dorm past the rest of the snoring, sniffling, snuffling men who have won a placement in this stark haven of sleeping humanity. These men made the grade. Passed the intoxication test and so made it into the warmth, the security of the inner sanctum. Many do not. they spend the night in the cold foyer trying to sleep on the floor or a hard plastic chair. There is also the ATM vestibules, or huddling by warm airs ducts or even staying up all night and walking the streets to keep warm rather than the alternative; Dead frozen or the police cells.
Allan’s mobility has limited his options. He cant sleep outside any more. His legs wont carry him around the block never mind walking all night. No one snuck him any liquor last night and he is between trustee paydays and so he is not hungover. He thinks he will have to get a drink today, or he will lose it.
He shuffles past the cold foyer door. He can see through the security glass door that some of the regulars have showed up and are passed out or waiting for the doors to open at 8am. He knows most of them. Most are long term street people or some with unstable housing. There’s a million and one stories out there hiding in the hearts of men and women like Allan.
“Good Morning Mr. Moccasin!” breaks the dullness of the morning. The upbeat shelter support worker is nearing the end of a long 12 hour night shift and he is giddy from exhaustion. Allan is not much for niceties in the morning. His pain takes priority and he makes sure the worker knows it. “Give me my pills!” “Hey!, Hey! Wheres my fucking pills.” The worker turns from surfing Facebook and takes in Allan and his request. He responds kindly: “Ok Allan, pills coming right up.” “How did you sleep?”
Allan grunts and waits for his Tylenol to arrive. The support worker quickly delivers pain relief and water. Allan swallows, hopes for quick relief; and turns to walk down hall towards cafe. He passes a woman sleeping on the floor, drool and blood from her nose dried on to her winter parka, toque pulled down over her face. The support worker is keeping an eye on her to make sure she keeps breathing and isn’t seizuring. Allan walks by without a glance. He makes the cafe slowly, turns the walker that is supplied by the shelter around to sit on. He ackwardly pulls himself up to a table, hoping someone is working that will bring him a coffee. Its too early, the dining area is just getting rolling. The smell of coffee are just beginning. Morning or night, it doesnt matter that much anymore. He sleeps anytime, sometimes right at the dinner table, half sleep, half passed out.
A younger Cree is up and about, shuffling around, looking for something. He isnt paying attention to the elder. He doesnt know Allan or obviously traditional treatment of elders because he makes no move to getting Allan his first coffee.
“Hey”, Allan grunts. The stranger comes over. “Coffee”, Allan points to the Bunn percolating in the corner of the dining area. The kid walks away in a fog of meth psychosis, scratching at invisible bugs under his skin, mumbling incoherantly.
“Fucking Indians!” Allan curses in Cree. He flips the kid off as he walks out into the frigid winter chill in the shelter pyjamas; Tshirt and boxer underwear. No respect anymore. The drugs they are doing make them crazy. Allan longs for the old days. The days when a man was a man and a woman a woman, alcohol was the only drug you needed. People werent so crazy.
He is frustrated. He cant just up and leave anymore and do what he chooses. His body has caught up with him. The shelter is not so bad. Could be worse. So many rules though. That new manager is always checking him out and telling him what to do. Allan laughs to himself. “Fucking bald whitey! Lol.” He thinks he is in charge. Big Bossman, some of them call him. Let him think that. If he gets too close, I could still take him out with one punch. I did it to that cop a couple of years ago. Got to spend the winter in jail. Warm and 3 meals a day. Dried out for a bit and everything. Not so bad. Bossman better watch how close he comes.
Oh, fuck. Almost forgot what today is. Some girls from some home are coming again to get together with me. Bossman keeps telling me about like its a big deal. Met them a month ago, signed some papers to go live in a old folks home. Thought it might be good. Tried it for a few days. Was total BS. Too quiet for me. Nice to be around the nurses, but everyone was not just old, they are half dead. Too quiet, they dont take well to me doing what I want. No freedom. Even the smokes are locked up.
Tried to punch one of the nurses, then started banging on locked door. Told them to let me out. Got a cab and went right to park for a drink. I knew shelter would let me in. Bossman is white, but also a Christian. But Jesus I needed to drink!
Made it back to shelter that night. Cant climb those fucking stairs and damn elevator wont work. The boys had to carry me up. Staff just looked at me, like they seen a ghost. “Allan, what are you doing here? You got a new home!”
“Open the fucking door.” They buzz me in. Just gone a few days and the indians greet me like a returning hero from war. They really missed me. But manager couldn’t believe his eyes. Ha Ha! He thought he got rid of me forever!
Bossman asks me to come in the office a couple of days later. Scolds me like a little kid. He looks stressed, bags under his eyes. He heard from old folks home that I wasnt too good. Says something about that he cant take care of me anymore. You need a better place to live than this shelter. You need proper medical care, nurses and food. “We arent set up to take care of you Allan,” “We are going to have you assessed again and an intake done for the home again. If you leave the home again, we cant let you back in the shelter.”
“My money, give me a few bucks. Come on?”
Bossman looks frustrated. He gets me my allowance for the day. I get a kid to buy a bottle and sneak it into shelter. I dont want to think…anymore.
The same girls as last time are here today. They are very nice to me. I sign the papers again. The Bossman doesn’t look any happier after. He and the intake workers are just another long line of do-gooders who want to help the homeless, drunken Indian. I really don’t like that place, the old folks home, Its too clean, too many rules, the others who live there are so out of it. I can always escape again after they get tired of me. I know Bossman will let me in again. He’s a sucker. Those Christians are soft.
Two months later a cab pulls up in front of the homeless shelter. Allan sits in the backseat. The Bossman is alerted. They have been watching for him just in case. The nursing home said this was the last time they would take him back. Allan starts to get out of the cab. The manager meets him at the back door of the cab. They speak.
The manager stands as if to block the door from opening any further. The taxi driver is impatient. Allan’s one leg is outside the cab with his foot on the pavement. His eyes look off far into the distance as he slumps back in the seat.
Hurts to breathe
fog n ice
hurry and flurry,
fast to the door,
tall boots on the floor,
stomping off snow,
the warmth lives,
Keep it aflame,
to be one again.
A lack of close friendships can further isolate men when they need help the most. Continue reading →Men struggle to keep friends — and it’s hurting their mental health — Global News
They respect him. The young ones move quickly to assist him. Bring him coffee, a snack, a plate of food. They will gift him, or rather pay him respect with a smoke or two. In their culture that is honor. Giving tobacco.
Some come to visit him, to talk Cree, to reminisce, to laugh. To those who show this Elder respect he treats well. Unless you are authority. Then, he will fight you. Literally.
Doesn’t matter the time or place. If you are police, government or shelter manager. The Old Man will push back. Amazing that he hasn’t softened after all these years. His physical condition is deteriorating visibly now. Month by month. In retrospect I feel very privileged to know him. To witness his uniqueness, his humanity. Never be another like him.
It would help to speak his native tongue. To be able to connect to his heart, language is vital. He lights up, and talks animatedly when another speaks the language of his youth, his only reality. Without the tongue, we can’t get close to knowing him, to him knowing us, without a common sense of together.
He’s been living homeless, on the street or sleeping rough in the bush for decades. Even in the winter, outside, pan handling on the streets, guarding the treasures from those who would take his sustenance. Now, using a walker, his legs failing, he has to depend on others. Is that hard for him, to have to ask for help, in this severely independent life?
Seeing him visibly weaken, month by month. Many wonder what will become of him. He has out lived many who have “chosen” this life. As his body fails, the options for freedom close in, shut down. He sees it coming at some level.
The lifetime of hand sanitizer, mouthwash, rubbing alcohol, hairspray ingested, occaissional wine, and rare hard liquor ravages his body now. He still must have it to cope, to get up in the morning, to not think, to not feel. Its much harder to consume now, when he is stuck in the shelter, sitting in plain view, just outside the managers door.
He is close to my fathers age. My father who I never got close to is also aging, and body failing. He is a “functioning” alcoholic. Acceptable to society mainly because he stays upright and provides for his family. He achieves numbness daily, inaccessible to his children or wife. I have been angry with him for years, but now I accept the reality of his pain. In my weakness, and in learning from the Old Man at the Shelter, I can better understand, feel for my father.
I reach out to the Old Man in kindness and what I perceive as friendliness or respect. Some days he works with the system, most days its a battle. It must be hard to be in jail for him. His almost yearly visits to the correctional center for assault or disorderly conduct or for some minor offence are often intentional to get out of the cold for the winter. Even when the shelter is available, its hard to stay put, to fit in. It must be hard to have sobriety forced on him in jail. The body will rebel against change.
To work with the Old Man is to have your self torn apart. What you thought was empathy is shattered. To put yourself in his shoes, to feel his feelings, to be kind in the face of his unkindness is what this work is about. To help people who desperately want your help is achievable. To shelter, to feed, to bring the neccessities of life to one who would just as soon harm you physically or verbally is where compassionate humanity is tested.
In retrospect, I consider myself very blessed to have had the opportunity to care for The Old Man. The lessons learned, are life long. His strength, resilience, sense of freedom, his laughter and his pain were transparent for all to see.