It isn't much.

Yesterday I found nobody outside who wasn't sleeping or itching, neither very good prospects for my sandwich contribution. I went down into the train and walked around once, then twice, noticing one long-legged, jittery fellow sitting with no bags, which is never a good sign; however, something drew me to him. I walked up to him, leaned down and in towards his face, and held out the sandwich. "Would you like a sandwich?" I asked as though I were a flight attendant. He looked up at me, and as we locked our gaze, I grinned. His face was expressionless, bordering on suspicious, but his hand was on the sandwich. I didn't want to withdraw my hand too soon for fear that the sandwich would fall to the ground, so I gently urged him to take it, saying, "It's okay. I just couldn't finish my lunch; it's peanut butter and banana." He held my gaze, and his hand closed over the sandwich. I slowly moved away, looked back at him and said, "Go ahead. I hope you like it."

I can still feel the intensity of that flat gaze, and the moment when he accepted the food when my hand could loosen because his tightened was his gift to me. I know the sandwiches are not the issue here, but the humanity is; we are all so much closer to the state of homelessness and disorientation than we know, and touching it, I believe, keeps me grounded and in some small way connected.

I am grateful to the people who accept my act of humanity even if I am too embarrassed to admit that the bread I use for their sandwiches is less expensive than the bread I use for mine. There, I've said it. And now I have to really think about what that means for me and my mission.

Graffiti Love - Sandwich Share

I realize as I ride the train into the city how very hooked I am on the graffiti that lines the walls of the abandoned buildings in north Philadelphia; it has become increasingly brilliant, creative and energetic. I began taking photographs as often as I could, and I remembered that when I was married, my husband and I used to argue about the merits and joys of street art, graffiti He hated it. The energy must have frightened him. I loved it; the energy compelled me and now that I live on my own, I can celebrate and document it the way I have always yearned to do.

Then, during Lent I decided that I needed to give back something to my city. I'm only one person; what could I possibly do that would mean anything?

I began to pack one extra sandwich a day and decided that I would give it to one homeless person each day. The first day was uneventful; I just found a man who had a large suitcase and bag standing next to him on the bench where he sat in the afternoon sunlight. I explained that I hadn't been able to finish my lunch and asked if he'd like my sandwich. Yes, said he, and took it with thanks. The next time I found two men huddled in the train station and asked; both said yes, but I had only one sandwich. One day I went up to a woman who had many bags, but she said, "Oh, honey, I've just had my lunch and I'm full." Then she warned me about some of the men lying around on benches; one had lice, she warned, another was very high. I walked slowly through Love Park, of all ironies and found a man slouched with his head hung between his knees, a plastic bag tucked beneath his bench. I leaned into him and found his eyeballs somewhere in the swirl of whatever self-medication he had consumed, and I just said, "Here is a sandwich." He looked up a little, slowly wrapped his warped hands around the sandwich and tugged it in towards his chest. Yesterday I found a man who was sitting next to an empty Peeps box; following a man with a crutch over toward the Peep box man, I noticed that the seated man handed the crutches man a small packet of something that had something blue inside it - maybe one dose of something - and as the man with the crutch walked away, I came to the seated man and leaned down to ask him if he would like a sandwich. He raised his head, looked directly at me as though he were started but then his gaze softened when he realized I was doing nothing more than offering him something. He took the sandwich.

I wish I could take the photos of the people who are taking my sandwiches, but I know I can't. What I can and will do is buy an extra loaf of bread at the market and continue this "habit" of mine in the hopes that one kind act may generate others. I shall use this space to write about my people in the city.

pa

Light.

I cling to this autumn afternoon light glowing through my windows, spilling across the floor, and try to catch and capture it with my camera. It is the best I can do, but it is an exercise in holding a spirit, Tinkerbell, something utterly insubstantial. And yet, sunshine is the one thing that makes the world substantial, offering the shadows of depth, the shimmer of reflection and the vibrancy of color. I love this afternoon exhibit, that drench of sunshine's golden syrup as it settles into dusk and downs to dark because that light holds the promise of another brilliant day to follow, another chance for joy, another angle of hope.

Forgotten but not forsaken

I had totally forgotten the concept of "brain brushing" and not even sure if I remember it accurately; I think it has to do with clearing your brain by cleaning it out each day, clearing it of the debris that makes it rot. My worst debris is when I do not tend to business either by holding onto negative ideas or not being grateful for the beautiful ideas and gifts that I stumble on every day. This chair is one of them. It isn't extraordinary, but its white arms and legs beckon to me to sit among my flowers, hummingbirds (see the little feeder to the right?) and the trees. This painting gave me tremendous pleasure even if it is primal and folksy. I loved trying to get the details of the lighting right, the shadow from the tree on Wanda and Dave's house, the shadow from the grasses and the glisten of the reflection on the edges of the white chair handles. I didn't really capture what I'd hoped, but I felt some depth beginning when I intensified or lightened the colors. How lucky I am to have colors, to want to SEE the way things work even if I cannot replicate them, and to find joy in the process and the standing back and feeling that I have at the very least "spoken," which is all I really hope to do - speak in a way that can be recognized or heard. I am beginning to believe that we are all here on this earth, yearning not just to speak, but to be heard, and I wonder if that is what tools like Facebook, email and Twitter are all about - getting a witness!

Snow shoveling

I may have forgotten to brain brush last night, but I DID shovel. Despite snow, near neighbors and friends came to my Christmas party, including another cello and french horn. Lovely bubbly champagne, way too much food, but the buche de noel was gobbled up entirely. I went cross country skiing for two hours as the icy snow pelted my face and made utter paste of the stuff beneath my skiis. It was grueling getting back, but it was great exercise and made the fire seem all the more enticing and enveloping. Everyone came to the backdoor, dumping boots, parkas and snow before coming into the soft peach glow of my candle lit house. Only two people came to the front door, and they had never been here before so didn't know the back door drill; I love having "backdoor neighbors."
Champagne glasses are washed and sparkly, the counter is still sticky, but Shadow and I trekked a mile through the snowy Wissahickon and then shoveled out my car so that I can take Max to Oliver this afternoon. Life is good. My brain is brushed, my thoughts are joyful and the days is promising.

Initializing...

Instead of "brushing before bed," I finished my second quilt last night at 1:00 AM; I guess that would be this morning. I felt glad about how I finished up students' portfolios, meetings and comments, and I had a cozy meeting with Aerie and Bronwyn in my little office before going over to visit Nancy and her delightfully cantankerous mother. We opened presents, drank tea and ate cookies and chocolates and laughed a great deal. I got home and had two warm, kind emails from Aerie and Bronwyn. I am grateful for their friendship, for my hands and for my heart.