What I talk about when I talk about
this research is joy. What joy is, is times of feeling intimately connected to
the world around you and the people in it. I know the solemn, intentional joy
of being alone and feeling that connection with clouds and sunlight and plants
and pavement, being part of all of that. But what this experience has been so
full of is the distracted, unselfconscious joy of feeling connected with other
people. What has happened is, I have made friends. These people who don't have houses or apartments, who I used to feel estranged from, even afraid of - I think of them when the weather
is bad, and I visit to see if I can help. I dream about some of them at night.
They have winked into being in the constellations of people in my life. I’ve
experienced devastation with them, watching them stare around, lost, at the
waste of the meager structure they had to their days. I’ve seen their ability
to be human even in that situation, to be so angry and scared yet to be able to
step back and say, “I don’t hold it against them; they’re just doing their
job.” I don’t care who else they are, or what else they are, or whether they
could find work if they tried harder, or whether they could get housing if
they’d just go to a case worker. I suspend judgment during my time with them,
the same way I do for other friends. I don’t listen because I have to; I want to listen. Laughing at a story they
tell me, or shaking my head in disgust at the injustice they are facing, or
watching the creases at the corners of their eyes as they smile, reflecting my
smile. The gradual process of being accepted as someone they can talk to,
someone they can trust, has thrilled me more and more and more deeply in each
instance of contact. I want to be part of their meetings, their informal
gatherings. I am hurt if I think I have hurt them. I don’t romanticize our
relationship or think that I mean the world to them, but I do not take for
granted the glory of their recognition. Taking the time to cultivate a
relationship so that when you see someone, you smile at each other and greet
each other happily, is the most joyous thing we can do with our time. It is not
the most productive thing; productivity is also part of this but belongs to
another realm. It is not the most economical thing or the most helpful thing
(though some may argue that it is). But connecting and being joyful in the bond
is the most important thing for a healthy human being to have, of this I am
sure. What they have given me over the course of these months of work is not
something I can talk about academically. I hope
for them. I trust them. They have
changed me so. The feeling I have now approaching a campsite is as night is to day with the feeling I had approaching the first time. Hesitation is now
confidence. Fear is now excitement. Uncertainty is now command. I know what to
say, how to look them in the face and not be so aware of our relative positions
in life. If I drive up in my car and they sit on a railroad tie with all their
belongings in a backpack beside them, it doesn’t matter because our relative
positions are pretend, formed by stories we tell about the value of money and
of objects. We are adjacent and joined by the only position that is real
between two humans: two simultaneously beating hearts, a whole history of
experiences that we begin sharing the moment our brains look out through our
eyes, meeting. I read once that you know everything you need to know about a
person the first moment you look into their eyes, if you are paying attention.
It’s true, because all you need to know about them is that they are a person
and all they need to know about you is that you are one. We know exactly how to
acknowledge the light, the soul, whatever you would like to call it, that
shines back at us. We pretend not to know in our fear and doubt. Once we have
practiced and learned to let the fear and doubt go, all that is left is the
joyfulness of transfer, of empathy. I can see your emotions in your eyes. I
care about the state of your mind. Once that is in place, everything else falls
easily into a natural rhythm and formation. Then if your friend says, “Can I have
$1.50?” and you say, “Yes,” and hand them two dollars because you don’t have
coins and they say, “Make it three,” and you say, “No,” and they say, “Okay,”
neither of you have lost anything in the exchange. You have both been honest
about what you need and what you are willing. It is as simple as meeting at a
coffee shop with an old friend. You might both offer to pay. One of you might
offer first and insist. One of you might find yourself short and ask for a
favor. We take these small moments in stride because we trust ourselves and we
trust our friends. You can understand and use the trust you have in people who
don’t have a house in the same ways. You are unafraid to say things like, “You
need to leave me alone now,” or “I have to leave.” You are unafraid to admit
that you have no cash, and you are unafraid to admit that you do but you need
it for something later. You are unafraid to say, “I can’t help you with that,”
or “I think I know someone who could help you out.” You’re unafraid to hug them
or cry or apologize or turn away or do any of the other things people do with
one another, because you have become unafraid of your own vulnerability around
them – which is really what we’re all afraid of. The precariousness of our own
position. That their homelessness will negate the legitimacy of our own
standing. It doesn’t have to. You can have your own life and love it and not
give it all away. They understand. They really do. And that is magic.
