the human version of love

the deaf school park is a ten minute walk away. this well-sculpted topiary doubles as a homeless shelter and the inconguity is stark: cofted business men stroll through with their starbucks and briefcases, kids try to catch the choi in the fountain, much to their manicured mothers' discomfort, yuppies walk their huskies...and there is a homeless person on almost every park bench and picnic table and under every dwarf japanese mable and bolgarian fir. many of them are sleeping, curled up on a flannel shirt or ratty coat or nothing, heads propped on the pack or walmart bag they live out of. or they sit, greeting friends coming and going, sharing the food they have, leering at the women walking by, asking for change, talking, laughing and even singing. dozens of them.

i wander into the park--pleased with myself for sacrificing several of my precious free hours to come here--eventually lying on the grass near a bush carved into a figure from neoimpressionist painting "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte", staring at the sky. i'm pleased that i know that painting and the artist that created it. i'm proud that i notice the spectacular sky when so many others ignore it, and scariest of all, i'm comfortably unaware of these thoughts. a man strolls by on the sidewalk, dress shoes clicking on the cement, book in hand. from his dress to carriage, he exudes opulence and education. i read the glance he barely takes the time to cast in my direction and it hurts. suddenly i realize that he is seeing me the same way he sees the other humanity sprawled under the trees, and i'm feeling the same emotion they feel when the distain in his eyes slides over them. i mentally glance over my appearance: barefoot, my favorite worn jeans rolled up, head resting on the ratty orange net bag i'm so terribly fond of. but i don't just feel the sting of his distain, and i'm ashamed of my reaction to being mistaken for a homeless women. i realize i'm wishing he knew "who i was", a well-fed american, reasonably intellgent and educated, kinda broke, but only because i'm too busy "helping people" to be materialistic. i want him to know i didn't come here because i had no other place to go, but just to talk to God and enjoy the brilliant fall day.

i came to the park feeling good about myself and wondering how anyone could see the suffering so blatantly portrayed and walk on past. and i left the park ashamed. ashamed that i was ashamed to be thought of as belonging to this class of individuals and hanging on to my association to the class above them. ashamed because while i profess love for these people and a desire to serve them, i'm unwilling to be part of them. that i consider coming to the park to pray for the humanity i see around me a more legitimate reason than coming there to hang my hammock inside the drooping willow for a nap before i gather my things and get in line at manna cafe--the nearest soup kitchen--for the evening meal. that, my friends, is dapravity.