The time I was asked to speak my truth

"Every shelter is for men" B tells me, emphatically waiving her hand in the air and looking down, as she always does when making a point. "There is no other place for women to go. That's what makes this place stand out so much."

The DWC does stand out. It is one of the first permanent supportive housing facilities, and the only center in Los Angeles that is dedicated to serving the needs of homeless and low income women living in Los Angeles' Skid Row. B explains to me that, back in the late 70's, the center was originally a day center for women (the only one in LA). The woman who started it actually took her savings-- the savings she kept for buying her own house-- and used it to build the center instead.

Every other week, another volunteer and I visit the DWC and gather with a small group of women to talk about a book. This week's book was Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  The conversation quickly turned from the plot of the book to their own experiences of moving around frequently and seeking community-- as children and now as adults.

I began to wonder if this is part of the human experience-- something we all share no matter what level of privilege we hold. Are we all just looking for community?

Out of the conversation comes a very quiet voice. D, sitting back in her chair, looks directly at me and asks "So, I want to know, how do you see life?"

Every eye in the room turned to me.

And I had no idea what to say. The sheer expansiveness of that question really threw me for a loop. In what context? Could I talk about spirituality here? Could I say it's empty without sounding depressing, but also without having to give a lecture on existing in Maya? Plus, it's been a rough week, and I'm not the happiest little elf in the forest at the moment.

"Well, I think of life as an adventure" I began "and I think wherever you end up, there's a lesson to be learned. Some of these are harder than others, but there's always something to learn from a situation." I paused, afraid I sounded like some sort of bratty college kid. But all the women were nodding and smiling, so I continued. "I think it's important to just be where you are, at any moment. Just be aware of what is going on around you. There's always something."

It's something I've been thinking about a lot lately. How would I summarize my philosophy on life? I don't think I really can, because I create it in real time. The narrative of my life, as adventurous as it has been in the past, is always evolving. Stagnation is the breeding ground for attachment and suffering.

Current take on life, in 5 words: "Eyes to the horizon. Onward."

But on further reflection, I think what shocked me most about this question is that she asked it of me in particular. Not the whole room. Not the other facilitator. Just me. Usually, I intentionally take a back seat at these discussions and make sure everyone around me feels safe to speak. I don't share unless someone asks me to, or if there are tensions in the room. I have so many opportunities to be heard everywhere else in my life. This is their space, their home and their community. It is their time to speak, and my time to listen.

Something happened this evening. It seemed like D was curious about me, and it felt nice to be thought of in that way.  For the first time at this center (and really, for the first time in a while), I felt like I was being let into a little community. Not full membership, of course, but the door has been opened slightly for me to peek inside. Yes, it's only for a moment, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

The time I saw an invisible man

There's this little gas station by the beach that is always full. On any given day, at any given hour, there is a dangerous cluster of cars on the side of the road trying to get in line for the pump. It typically takes me about an extra 15 minutes of wait time at that station, during which I am completely and silently flipping out in my car, hoping that dude with the fancy smart phone and aviators doesn't back his ridiculously expensive ride into my honda civic. Because that would suck.

So the other day, I finally got to the pump (after dodging a motorcyclist with dog-in-tow... don't ask). I hopped out of my car and started purchasing some fossil fuels, when all of the sudden I hear a voice behind me

"If only it were that easy, right?"

I spun around and came face to face with a man wearing faded fatigues, carrying a huge bag of bottles and cans on his back. The others at the station around me glanced at him warily, and then continued about their business, making a point of turning away from him. I, too, quickly looked away. I don't know why.

"If only it were easy enough to just live a simple life, baking pastries. Not taking orders from nobody."

 It took me a moment to register what he was talking about. I realized he was referring to my silly Johnny Cupcakes t-shirt that read "Make Cupcakes not War". I had mindlessly put it on that morning in a half-baked attempt to avoid looking like a teacher.

Suddenly, I felt a tug inside me, and turned to look at him again, directly this time. His hair was long, and he wore it pulled back, revealing a face tanned and slightly streaked with dust. His eyes were what caught me off guard. While the rest of his face seemed weather beaten and tired, he had the most brilliant and youthful blue eyes. They were playful, and seemed to smile on their own.

"Yeah, you're absolutely right" I said. "It would be nice if things were simpler."

"I've got a lot of buddies that are up there," he gestured at the sky "looking down and wondering what the hell is going on in this world. Wondering why we still take orders, making the same damn mistakes.  Things are just so fucked up. No one seems to notice or care. It's like I'm invisible. It's like it's not even real."

He said all this gently and without the slightest bit of defensiveness in his tone, as if he knew he didn't have anything to prove to me. As if he just knew I was there to listen. And it's a good thing too, because at that moment, all my words failed me. My mind filled with questions:

How does this happen-- how do we let human beings fall through the cracks? What does it mean to serve your country, and then have your country turn its back on your suffering? What does it feel like to be unheard and unseen? To be perpetually ignored and denied person-hood, day after day?  Do you begin to believe the world around you-- do you start to think you are actually invisible, that your pain is somehow deserved? Do you forget that you exist at all?

After a few moments, the pump indicated my tank was full. Before I got back into my car, I looked back at him. He smiled at me, gave me a little wave and said "Have a beautiful day. God bless you." I smiled and waved back, got into my car and drove away.

I know this doesn't sound like an awesome, positive story, but it was a really beautiful moment of connection that I've been reflecting on over the past few days.

We live in such a rough world, and it is scary for us to acknowledge how easy it is to slip through the cracks of society. I think that's why people are so uncomfortable when interacting with the homeless. Looking at them in the face, means coming to terms with the fragility of our own situation.  In an admittedly uncomfortable way, I feel connected to that man. It's like he was holding up a mirror, reflecting an alternative-- but very real-- reality. We are separated only by a very thin thread of circumstance.

I think at our core, we share the same nature. We all do.

((According to the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) ,  62,619 veterans are homeless on any given night.  Nearly 13% of the homeless adult population are veterans.
Approximately 12,700 veterans of Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF), Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF) and Operation New Dawn (OND) were homeless in 2010. For more information, see http://nchv.org/))