Drop In Calgary Blog

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2010-01-10T19:42:00.000-07:00

Please note: This blog is no longer active. All DI blogs are at:

http://thedi.ca/listing/blogs/

Please visit us at the link above.

Thanks!

It's what we do.

2009-12-26T10:59:00.002-07:00

I wrote the following piece after Rob, one of our counsellors, came into my office to tell me about the most remarkable evening he'd had the night before. Intriqued with his story, I found 'the star' and asked her if I could share it. She smiled and said, Please do.

I share it with you this morning. A Christmas Gift from the human condition.

Like Good King Wenslaus of yore leading his page through the storm, Google Maps led the travelers through the deep and blowing snow towards the animal shelter. It was the second animal hospital they had tried that night of the storm. With Google Map in hand, they found the first one only to be informed they handled animals of the four legged kind, dogs and cats. Definitely not birds.

Their patient was a bird. A pigeon with a broken wing. She had fallen onto the smoke deck on the second floor of the Di. “She landed right in front of me,” Bernice said, her round face wreathed in a beautiful smile. “I couldn’t just leave her lying there. It was pretty obvious she was wounded. I had to save her.”

Bernice tucked the wounded bird under her vest where it snuggled into her armpit. “And then staff found out.” She chuckled. “It was the second time I was caught with a bird. The first one was a baby sparrow. They wouldn’t let me keep her. I was so scared for her. I let her go over by the trees along the river.” Pause. A sigh. “I hope she survived.”

When informed the pigeon would have to be put outside Bernice insisted she would go with it. “It won’t survive out in the cold,” she exclaimed. “I’ll go with it.”

Staff Carrie was persistent. ‘You can’t sleep outside Bernice. It’s too cold.”

But Bernice was not to be dissuaded. Finally, Carrie and another staff member, Jordan, convinced Bernice to allow them to take the pigeon, whom she now called ‘Little Bernie’ to the animal hospital. The floor was busy, the shelter crowded as it has been every night for months. Carrie and Jordan couldn’t leave the floor so staff Rob, a counselor on the fourth floor, leaped to the rescue.

“I’ll drive,” he said. And Bernice promptly announced she was going with him. She was not prepared to let the little bird go. And by this point, the bird was not prepared to let go of Bernice. It snuggled into her neck, nipping at her throat, burrowing deeply into her sweater.

“It was so amazing,” said Rob. “To watch Carrie caring for Bernice. Bernice caring for ‘Little Bernie’. It was a beautiful moment.”

With imminent death by cold weather averted, Bernice and Rob set out only to return, bird still in hand, to search again for another shelter that would take a pigeon.

“It’s sort of like our clients,” said Rob. “They don’t fit in or they’re intoxicated and the only place they can come to is the shelter. Driving Bernice and ‘Little Bernie’, I felt a real connection to the plight of our clients. Snow was blowing. We were lost. What were we to do to save this little bird?” He shakes his head. Clears his throat.

“At one point the pigeon was puffing and Bernice said, ‘It’s thirsty.’”

He pauses to let the emotion of the moment settle. “She let saliva collect on her tongue and drip into the pigeon’s mouth. And the pigeon opened its beak to receive her gift. Bernice was so scared it would die and there we were in a snowstorm, no visibility, no hope we’d find our way, even with Google Maps and there she was feeding the bird the only water we had, her saliva.”

He shakes his head again. “Finally, we were so lost, we realized we’d have to go back to the Di and then, there we were." He laughs. "I was turning around in a parking lot to head back towards downtown, looked up and saw this big red cross glowing in the dark, snowy night. We were in front of the animal shelter.”

They took the bird inside and released it to the care of the staff at the animal hospital. It didn't want to let go of Bernice. Bernice didn't want to let it go until finally she was convinced that it was best for 'Little Bernie' that she separate herself from it.

“It’s what a momma bird would have done for its child,” Bernice says. “Anything to keep it alive.”

It is like that at the shelter. ‘Anything to stay alive.’ “I just wanted to help it out,” says Bernice. ‘You know. Be its family while it needed care. It’s a small creature. A being. Just like us. We gotta take care of each other.”

Taking care. It was someone else’s lack of care that landed Bernice at the Di six years ago. She was a construction worker. “I was cribbing,” she tells me, pride straightening her shoulders. “My co-worker up above loosened a bolt on some scaffolding and it crashed down upon me.”

That crash landed her a ride in an ambulance and time in hospital. “My back has never been the same. My shoulders were dislocated. My knees were already shot and now,” she shrugs and smiles, touches her long black hair. "There was a dent in my hard hat but it missed my head." Another pause. “I miss working. When I see the logo for the company I used to work for, I want to go back so bad. I miss working.”

“And I miss my kids,” she adds quietly.

And then she laughs. “But, it’s one day at a time. Calgary’s my home now. I’ve been here six years. This is my home.” She pauses. “I was just trying to help a little bitty bird. That’s what we do here. Help each other. We share. Laughter. Friendship. It keeps the spirits up.”

Keeping spirits lifted – it’s what we do here. No matter the weather. No matter the storm.

And to all a good night.

2009-12-22T12:59:00.002-07:00

Day 12
The 12 Days of Christmas at the DI

On the 12th Day of christmas my true love gave to me....

There are some who suggest that this song is a code. Believed to have been written in the 16th Century, at a time when the religious wars in Britian made it perilous for a Christian to practise their faith. The 'gifts' are said to be code for the most important and relevant teachings of the faith. 'A partridge in a pear tree' represents Jesus Christ, the Son of God. 'Two turtle doves', the old and new testaments. 'Three french hens', Faith. Hope. Love, the three Theological Virtues of Christianity. (Go here to read all their meanings.)

Whether their meaning is fact or fiction, no matter where you are, hum a few bars and someone will chime in and bestow one of the gifts upon you.

At the DI, Christmas blessings continue to arrive every day. From socks and hats and mitts and jackets, Calgarians are turning up in record number to bestow upon us the things that will make a difference in someone's life at the shelter.

Last week, I went to an elementary school (The photos are placemats they created for clients to use on Christmas Day -- Thank you Battalion Park School!) to give a presentation to students from K-6. At the beginning of my presentation, I always ask, "Do you have a dream about what you want to do when you grow up?" And the students always throw up their arms, wave their hands and call out, "I do." "I do." Doctor. Lawyer. Fireman. Hockey Player. Nurse. Astronaut.

No one ever tells me their dream is to become homeless. Or to become mired in an addiction that will steal everything you hold dear and leave you wasting on the streets. No one ever tells me that their dream is to one day walk into a homeless shelter looking for the EXIT sign to the other side of the street only to become lost in depression and despair.

Homelessness isn't a dream come true. It is mostly a nightmare.

This Christmas, as in year's past, the darkness of homelessness has been lifted by the generosity of those who work at the frontlines holding out hope for everyone who comes through our doors and those who stand behind them, supporting them, lifting them up and ensuring they have what is needed to care for the people we serve.

For our clients, that hope begins with accepting them where they're at and treating them with dignity and respect, no matter where that place may be. For our volunteers, hope is founded on the value our shelter adds to our community -- we create a safe place for those who have nowhere to go except the streets. We take care of those who have lost their place in their family circles. We take care of those others can't or won't care for. And, for our communities, our city, our world, hope translates into a kinder, more caring society. A place where no matter your economic, spiritual, physical or mental state of being, everyone finds a place to belong.

It is the 12th Day of Christmas. In liturgical practise, the gifts of the 12 days begin with Christmas and continue for twelve days to the Epiphany.

We've jumped the Magi and moved the gifts to flow into the Christmas spirit. It isn't about when the gifts appear, it is that they appear and cast light upon our journey.

Today, I share a gift from a beautiful woman who wrote a poem for those who walk the streets and those who take care of where they're walking. I've never met Maureen Doallas in person, but after reading these 12 Days of Christmas, she felt compelled to share a poem she worte for everyone here at the DI.

Homage to DI
Poem written by:
Maureen Doallas

Wanting:
not the kind
they know,
yet we know
they know.

Give us shelter.
And shelter we receive.

We need.
And so they provide.

We try.
And they say,
it's enough.

We give what we can
as we can
in return:

Remnants, mostly,
of dreams
we still follow
of circles we've
still to trace
back.

We begin
where they begin
with us:

A hand open
A hand given

It's enough.

Copyright Maureen Doallas

In the words of season's past, "Merry Christmas everyone. And to all A Good Night!"

Thank you for all your support. For your contributions that make the work we do possible.

A Time for Every Purpose

2009-12-21T07:24:00.000-07:00

Day 11
The 12 Days of Christmas Blessings at the Shelter

It is the time of sleigh bells ringing and mistletoe and ivy adorning every doorway.

It is the season of snowmen standing sentry on front lawns with carrot noses and button eyes peering fearlessly into the dark winter's dawn.

The time of rosy cheeks and frosty breath steaming up an icy window and icicles suspended upside down from rooftops and tree branches.

It is a time for love, faith and joy. For holiday spirits rising and temperatures falling as children snuggle in for a long winter's nap with visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads.

It is a time for hope.

A time when the Christian world awaits the promise of a Savior's birth who will rule the world in truth and grace. When Muslim and Sikh and Buddhist and Hindu and Shinto and Jew and atheists alike pray for peace amongst all mankind as we struggle to find comfort and joy amongst us.

A time when we stop and take a collective breath to rejoice in family, in goodwill amongst men, in our blessings gathered around a Christmas tree twinkling in the night.

It is a time for love. For sharing our abundance. For giving and receiving.

At the shelter Christmastime is a time of joy and of sorrow. A time when those who have nothing look to give something to the one's they love. For some, that something is another year without them sitting arm in arm at the table. For them, whatever drove them to the street continues to hold them back from stepping once again across the family hearth to connect to the circle of love into which they were born.

For others, they will give a phone call. A card. A simple note with the words, "Merry Christmas" written upon it.

For some, they will take what little they have and spend it on a special treat for a sweetheart, a table mate, a friend. They will share, a cigarette, a sip of pop, a coffee. They will share a smile, a hug, a warm greeting.

And for others, Christmas will come and go without their noticing its passing. They will remain locked in the lure of the substance that has stolen them away from those they love, that has wrenched them far from their family's embrace and left them here, on the street, searching for a way out as they wait in hope of a new day rising on the fullness of the promise of Christmas Eve.

Christmas is a time for mixed emotions at the shelter. A time to yearn for family circles and broken dreams. A time to long for a place to belong where poverty and lack and broken promises no longer fill the horizon of another day lost to the street.

And, it is a time to rejoice. To give thanks. To celebrate. A time for every purpose under heaven.

Yesterday, I went into the shelter to give a tour to a group of young hockey players who had driven an hour to drop-off boxes of hats and scarves and mitts and socks. "We had a Head to Toe Toss," one of the players excitedly told me. "We invited everyone who came to our tournament this weekend to donate something to the shelter."

Those 'somethings' resulted in over 1400 items plus $400 cash for purchasing lipbalm and razors and cough drops -- desperately needed items on our WishList.

As the students formed a line carrying the boxes into the shelter, clients stopped to thank them, to lend a hand, to wish them Merry Christmas. The children's faces lit up. They smiled and said, "You're welcome."

In the faces of those nine and ten year olds is the spirit of Christmas. They did not ask, "Why should we have to do this?". They simply asked, "Where do we put these boxes?" Their excitement in delivering the bounty of their Head to Toe Toss reminded everyone that, no matter what side of the street we walk on, we can all make a difference simply by sharing what we have without looking for someone to tell us what to do or what to give.

When we open our hearts, as these children did, and simply give because it's the right thing to do, we create a world that is so much more right than wrong. We create a world where the possibility of forgiveness awakens with every breath and where healing begins in every broken heart.

From all of us. Merry Christmas.

Reflecting the light

2009-12-20T08:09:00.001-07:00

Day 10
The 12 Days of Christmas at the DI

Everyone wants to leave footprints behind them. My art is my footprint. Reg Knelsen

At last count, he says he's had over 137 jobs in his life, the first one at the age of 15 when he moved to Calgary and became the youngest Assistant Manager at A&W in Canada. "I was pretty proud of that one," he says. "It lasted one month."

Since then he's moved across Canada. Across the economic scale. Across the divide between abundance and lack. "I've sat in my living room with the cathedral ceiling on my Italian leather sofa, sipping a beer and watching the fire, and I've been miserable. I've had stuff, lots of it, and still been miserable. Stuff didn't do it. What does it for me is my art."

He is a man of deep intellect. Perceptive. Thoughtful. Generous. He is continually giving staff and visitors to the Wild Rose Studio at the shelter small tokens of his appreciation. He holds out a box of bookmarks to a young child, a warm smile on his face as he encourages them to take one, delighting in their choice as if it was the most amazing choice in the world.

"Maybe," he says of his gift-giving, "that child, or adult even, never received a gift from a stranger before. Especially a homeless one. Maybe that one gift will open that child's mind to the idea that people, no matter where they live, have value. Just like that tiny scrap of paper upon which I painted a design. It had no value until I found its worth in the image I painted upon it."

He paints on canvas. On scraps of wood. Old flooring. Discarded bowls. A table top. A stool. Anything he finds, or friends find for him, on their journey through the city. Found art. That's what he calls it.

Like himself. "I've found myself again here in this space. This space of magic. Of possibility. Of dreams unfolding," he says of the art studio where he is one of the founding members and a core volunteer.

"Look what this has done for me," he says, where he stands in the corner of the studio plying paint upon a piece of wood, creating a scene of wonder. "I never name my paintings. Their real name lies in the person who buys it and takes it home. I always ask my purchasers to name the painting. Then it becomes a collaborative piece. Then they have a part in the painting and a part in me."

He believes in making sure people have a part in the studio. He believes that everyone has a role to play.

"This place came to be because we all shared a dream and kept working towards that dream unfolding. If we get more people to come into the studio and share in the dream, who knows where it can go? Who knows what could happen?"

Reg Knelsen has been coming to art.works for over three years. In that time he's painted hundreds of images upon the found objects, and the more traditional surfaces, of his craft. Most recently, he shared his feelings and experiences of becoming rehoused. Of being a working man with a day job, and a passion for the arts and a desire to touch hearts and minds and souls with his visual stories.

In Reg's words:

"Coming Into the Light"
(Reality reflecting the light)

Just where is it written down that one's solitude is a sought after value? Are we not social creatures who have placed value in our interpersonal relationships? This getting used to silence, peace and space of one's own is a lengthy process. It took this man six months to realize he did not need to put the protective cap back on his razor. No one was going to touch it. This of course carries over to all the matters of household chores, or if you will, the ghost work we all do.

After twenty years of not being in one job for even a year, I find myself on the verge of hitting another landmark. One year on one job, of all things, doing laundry in a homeless shelter. Albeit, it is only 30 hours a week. However, combined with my volunteer work in the studio, it probably works out to a full-time job.

Accomplishments after accomplishments. This must be an affliction of some sort. A moment of accomplishing this passion I speak often about. Reflecting the light.

*

This joy that I have in my energy (money), allows me to share in small ways with others. Ram (Project Forward) did not touch on this. His emphasis was on saying 'no' to requests for money, cig's, etc. Perhaps philanthropic values are not measured in the amounts but in the value of the act. (Many acts of kindness, occasional acts of great beauty.) Of course, what value you put on kindness or beauty will determine what those acts are.

My experiences here, growth, have now allowed me to realize that at times I must shut my eyes to see (hear) the beauty in what someone is saying. The very visual image that some of the clients present to me alters what I hear, also what I smell will also alter what I hear. I try to shut those out to hear/see the beauty.

My senses have increased over the years here. My art grows as I try to bring the feel, smell, sound, taste, sight of all that is in me and around me. My journey is growing to where I now paint the glory of pain, depression and all the lower emotions. My direction is to reflect to those that have not experiences this life or mind, the incredible places and people and things I have met and sensed.

I've now been making up my own titles for the pictures I paint. They are spontaneous and will not be put on each picture. (I still want people to put their titles on, they have great value. And, they become part of my journey.) But, in each painting my senses have gone into it so if they want to know, I will tell them.

The uncertainty of my life (I make plans. Life happens.) creates an energy of its own. Working with unstable people and artists creates a need for out of the box thinking while still holding onto my values and boundaries.

*

Reg is going home for Christmas. "The greatest part of this trip home is I've paid for my own ticket," he says. Two years ago his Christmas wish was for a ticket home to BC. He received it and reconnected with family he hadn't seen in years. "This year, I'm taking them all out for dinner. My treat." He laughs. "This having a regular paycheque. Planning for special things, is pretty exciting."

In memory of a friend

2009-12-19T10:43:00.005-07:00

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.

From a headstone in Ireland

Day 9
The 12 Days of Christmas at the DI

We held a memorial service yesterday for our friend, James Bannerman. James left this world at 12:45 am on Tuesday, December 8. I wrote about James' passing and my experience of spending the last few hours of his life with him last week -- and yesterday, we gathered as a community to celebrate his life and to wish him, 'God Speed' on his journey to the other side.

It was an incredibly moving and powerful event. About 50 people gathered in our multi-purpose room to pay tribute to a man who never asked for much and always gave more than asked.

Poets read. Musicians played. Singers sang and the entire event was filled with the wonder of creative spirits sharing their gifts to honour a man who, though his time with us was short, shared the best of who he was in every way he could.

The day before, while working on a powerpoint of James photos, I came across a series of photos he'd taken of a truck from Lynx Snow Removal*. It had a telephone number under the company name so I called it.

A man answered. "Hi. This is Cliff."

"Hi," I replied and explained who I was and where I was calling from.

"I'm just going through photos that James took," I told him, "and came across one with your company name and number on it. Did James work for you?"

Silence.

"Is he gone?"

"I'm afraid so."

"When?"

"Last Tuesday. December 8."

"He worked for me for nine years. He was a great guy. A guy you could count on."

We chatted some more. He thanked me for letting him know. He wished he could make the memorial service but would be on a job. I promised to send him one of James' photos of his truck and we hung up.

The next day at the memorial service, Don, who manages our labour office would tell me, "Cliff's a good guy. He used to pay James not to work. In those times when he didn't have work for him he'd pay him because he didn't want him to go off and get another job and not be available when he needed him. He loved when it snowed. It meant he was working for his pay."

James would have been happy with this winter. Lots of snow. Lots of work. Lots of pay. Lots of opportunity to feel good about a job well-done.

It was important to him. Doing a good job. Making a contribution.

It came through clearly in the comments that were said and read at the service. A brother, sister and neice wrote in to share their stories of 'Jimmy' as he was known to them. "My Uncle Jimmy was my favourite," wrote Tammy his neice. "He babysat me when I was little and my mom was at work. He loved to cook. Even taught me how to make his famous Chinese spaghetti."

The portrait of a man's past.

In the brother's letter he spoke of Jimmy's drinking problems. "He was a good man, my baby brother. Our mother died when he was elevent and I believe it is the cause of all his drinking."

We never knew 'Jimmy' as a drinker. As a man haunted by a bottle he could not put down. In the years James was at the shelter, he was never under the influence. Never known to pick up a bottle and lose himself.

"It's what we gotta do sometimes to beat the bottle," said Richard who got up to speak about James at the service. "We gotta leave our families behind to let go of our addictions."

Fellow member of the Wild Rose Studio, Reg, stood up and read what he'd written about James. "A cry of loss for an artist who has left us. A remembrance of his creativity and vision. I did not know his story, those things that most people put value in, job, car, house and family. Howver, we did at brief moments share our vision, stories of his muse that drove him to capture moments that moved people. His endeavours to say, show, shock people into looking at this world in a different way.

We, our community, is less than now for an artist has left us. We do not know what he may have brought to us in the future. A Mona Lisa. A Monet. A photoghrah of the year. My god, what can we do but look at his footprints and try to see the sound, the smell, the taste, the feel of that moment."

Max, artist, musician, poet and carpenter once wrote, "I am a father, a son, brother, uncle, nephew, friend. I am an artist, writer, carpenter. Which of these is diminished because I am homeless?" In Max' eyes, James was never diminished. He was always a man of great worth. He wrote,

"Last week we lost a friend.

Last week, we lost an artist.

Last week we lost a confidant.

Last week we lost an advisor.

Last week we lost a part of us."

It was a moving statement about a man for whom the past was not what counted. James never shared much about his past. In sharing what was important to him today, however, he gave us many gifts. Friendship. Kindness. Consideration. Photographs of this city, a place where he knew every nook and cranny. A place he travelled, on foot, by transit, in a truck with a man who employed him and to whom he gave good value for a job well-done.

Well done James. Your life is done. Your job here on earth has come to an end. Travel into that other world, those other spaces far beyond this realm we know not of and be of gentle spirit. You left an impact. Your footprints are left upon our hearts. Your images are set upon our memories. You will be forever remembered as a man whose gentle spirit was a gift to be treasured forever more.

This video was taken by James at our Christmas art show in 2008.

She lights up our lives

2009-12-18T04:31:00.000-07:00

Day 8
The 12 Days of Christmas at the Di

I first met Onalea Gilbertson a year ago when she came into my office, a one woman tour de force, eager to talk about her project. Tall. Blonde. Beautiful. A thousand watt lightbulb of a smile. Warm eyes. Warm heart. An actor. Singer. Writer. Poet. She had been commissioned by "This is My City", an initiative by The City of Calgary, Arts and Recreation Department, to create a play for High Performance Rodeo and was in my office to explore how we could work together.

It was the beginning of a relationship that I cherish today as a friendship that has added incredible light and lightness to my life.

For the past year, Onalea has come into the shelter one evening a week (and many other days too) to meet with a group of clients who have now become, The Di Singers. The objective was to explore and develop their creative talents, and to write and rehearse pieces for "TWO BIT OPER-EH?-SHUN", an oratoria exploring homelessness, poverty, drug addiction and mental illness on the streets of Calgary by Land's End Chamber Ensemble. The oratoria, a musical composition for voice and instruments telling a sacred story, is based on the vivid stories of the clients as well as Onalea's experiences at the shelter along with contributions by Calgary performing artists.

It has been a year of growth. A moving experience for everyone involved.

One woman. Many songs. Hundreds of stories. A lasting impact.

Like a fairy godmother creating Cinderella's ballgown, Onalea sweeps into the Di, and beneath the power of her smile and incredible spirit, magic is created. Her commitment, compassion, empathy and belief in the value of every human spirit weaves a magical thread of possibility into each moment, every word that is sung, every note that is played, every instrument strummed.

As part of
"TWO BIT OPER-EH?-SHUN", Onalea has also worked with a group of artists to create, the "Found Sound Orchestra" Taking cast-out items and found objects, Onalea, the artists and clients on our second floor day area have created unique musical instruments that can be strummed and jingled and jangled and shaken and vibrated to create unusual, sometimes discordant, yet always pleasant sounds.

The instruments remind me of many of the people we serve. Sometimes outcasts. Cast-offs. Cast-away. Separated from mainstream society by the streets they inhabit, they often do not see their own uniqueness and value. As they come to light at the Di, they begin to find their own song. They begin to find the courage to march to their own drummer, no matter how different. They begin to pick up the pieces of their lives to weave together a new scene, a new picture that suits them better, fits them more closely and opens them up to new songs, new sounds, new possibilities.

Under Onalea's tutelage, the performers of the Di Singers have begun to find their own unique voice. To create a sound that is harmonious and rich, vibrant and alive with the multi-faceted voices and stories of those who have answered her call to be part of an experience that is unscripted, unparallelled and unprecedented in the shelter.

An amazing year. An unforgettable journey. An incredible woman.

Since that first meeting a year ago, I have been blessed to get to know Onalea as an artist, a human being, and as a friend. She is kind, caring, deep. Generous. Passionate. Funny. Insightful. Perceptive. Inquisitive, but never pushy. Curious, but never intrusive. She probes gently, prods lightly and pushes effortlessly to bring out the best in everyone she meets and to encourage everyone she encounters to be their most amazing selves.

I don't' know what Onalea wants for Christmas this year but I know what I'd like to give her -- gratitude, love and joy. I don't know what's on her list, but I do know that the list of things she's brought to the shelter -- and to my life -- are priceless. Joy. Awareness. Laughter. Amazing conversation. Creativity. A world of new thinking. A palette of awesome colour to paint vivid and vibrant scenes of life beyond the street, beyond this place called homeless. With her compassion and creativity, she has bridged the divide separating us and them and created a space where every voice is heard, every song is valued. A place where labels no longer fit. A place where every person has the freedom to explore their own incredible worth and fill their space with all they're meant to be.

It has been a year of exploration and creation. A year of delving into all that makes this place so amazing. A year of digging into our creative cores to find the gold in the shadows of city skyscrapers and back alleys, the gold hiding within each and everyone of us, waiting to be dug up and brought to light.

Merry Christmas Onalea. Your passionate commitment to bringing out the best in every human being you meet, has made the Di richer and more vibrant. Thank you for sharing your light so generously. Thank you for adding your incredible hues of love and joy and laughter and hope to our world.

The High Performance Rodeo Presents

The Land's End Chamber Ensemble's Production of

"TWO BIT OPER-EH?-SHUN"
World Premiere
Saturday January 16 2010 7:30pm
Grace Presbyterian Church 1009 15th Ave. SW
Tickets: http://www.hprodeo.ca/ or call -- 403-294-9494

Composed by Marcel Bergman. Libretto by Onalea Gilbertson

Featuring The Land's End Chamber Ensemble with

Onalea Gilbertsen, Elizabeth Stepkowski Tahran

Doug McKeag, the choir Rev 52 and the Di Singers

70 minutes plus 45 minute talk back reception

Art show and sale
by artists of the Wild Rose Studio
at the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre.

I know I'll be okay

2009-12-17T07:21:00.001-07:00

Day 7
The 12 Days of Christmas Blessings at the DI

She is 31. She loves to read, "It's my favourite thing in the world," she says. She loves to write. She's started her own blog. "I think if I force myself to write everyday," she says, "It will be therapeutic. And, I hope that if I tell my story, I'll inspire someone else to tell theirs and maybe, I'll be able to help someone else."

She has a gentle sense of humour. A laugh that tinkles like tiny Christmas bells ringing on a clear, winter's night. "I didn't ever expect this," she says. "I was really scared when I first came here."

"This" is homeless.

"Here" is the DI.

"I didn't know what to expect. I didn't know what to do. I went to the YWCA but they were full. They told me to come here. I was scared."

Homelessness hit six months ago. "I have a disability," she says. She looks at me, her eyes wide, but slightly unfocused. "See my eyes? It's a learning disability too and that makes it hard for me to get certain jobs. I had a job I really enjoyed at a coffee shop, but they told me I was too slow."

One day, as I stopped at the drive-through window of the Starbucks where she used to work, I complimented her on something she had said at a memorial service for a staff member who had died the week before. "Oh," she responded. Surprise raising the 'oh' into an exclamation. "Thank you for telling me that." Pause. "You were there?"

"Yes," I told her. "I work there."

"Oh." She paused again. It is something I will learn to appreciate about her. Her gentle and considered responses. Not artificial or contrived. Gentle and considered. Jessica thinks before she speaks. "Do you like working there?"

"I love working there."

She smiled. Handed me my latte. "I love working here too."

And now, she no longer works there. She is too slow.

Too slow. In a world of fast --take out, drive-through, instant messages and immediate gratification where you gotta get up and go if you're gonna get where you're goin', Jessica is too slow.

I find her enchanting. There is a gentleness about her. A kindness. A naivety that stops me. Makes me think twice before I say something sarcastic or 'witty'. Makes me think twice about what I'm doing, who I am. She makes me want to be 'a kinder me'.

We are on the fifth floor of the DI. In a transitional housing area. It is 'her home' and she has opened up her home to a TV reporter doing a story on the Christmas WishList.

She opens her locker to show us everything she owns in the world. "It all fits in here," she says motioning to the gym-locker room style space. Metal. Tall and skinny, it holds a few clothes, toiletries, a box and her most favourite possession -- books.

"Where is all your 'stuff'?" I ask.

"I've never really had any stuff," she replies with a shrug of her shoulders. "I've always lived in shared accommodation. The last place I got evicted from because I couldn't pay my rent after I lost my job. I stayed with friends for awhile but that was too much too and when I left, this was all I had."

"What keeps you going?"

"Faith," she easily replies. "Faith in God. I know I will be okay."

This Christmas what would 'rock' Jessica's world is, a night in a hotel room. "Just one night to have a bath. To be alone. Privacy is non-existent here. I'd just like one night to myself on a soft bed." She pauses. Laughs. Thinks about it some more."Of course, if I had someone to share it with that would be nice too, but I don't." Sigh. Smile. "I'm single."

A simple wish from a woman with simple desires. She's 31. Never been married. Had a boyfriend but that wasn't too good. "I've got a lot of healing and learning to do," she says. "My step-father was really abusive. I think it really hurt me." She pauses again. "Deep down."

Deep down, the wounds of being homeless rankle her hard-won peace of mind. "People can be so mean. They can be so unkind. They make judgements. Call 'us' lazy. Or stupid. Or bums. It's not true. I'm not lazy. And I know I'm slow but I'm not stupid. I really want to work but being here makes it hard to remember that I can. It makes it hard to remember who I am."

This Christmas, along with over six hundred other clients at the shelter, Jessica has made a wish on the Christmas WishList. "It would mean the world to me if I get it," she says. She pauses again. "But, I know I'll be okay if I don't."

Christmas Wishes filled with light

2009-12-16T06:28:00.003-07:00

Day 6
The 12 Days of Christmas at the DI

When we started asking clients at the shelter if they'd like to participate in Christmas messages online, Tim, the videographer said, "Think of this as those 'Messages to our Troops' we often see on TV. This is what these are like. Messages back home, to your family."

How exciting, people responded. In fact, they thought it was so exciting some have since approached and asked, "When are we sending the messages to our troops?"

This morning, we share with you the voices and faces of people who, while calling the DI home, eagerly share what little they have with people far away. In their yearning for another place, another time, other people we 'see' their joy and gratitude and longing to be connected with those they love.

In their heartfelt messages they speak of who we all are, what we all share in our human condition.

Some scientists describe our world as packets of light creating energy in the form of life. May these voices and faces remind you, we are all beings of light connected on this human journey, giving life to all that is wondrous and beautiful and heartfelt about us. We are all connected.

May they come home, safe and sound

2009-12-15T07:03:00.004-07:00

Day 5
The 12 Days of Christmas at the DI

It was just a plain cardboard box labelled with my name and address. Hopewell Hill, NB was the only clue as to the sender.

I knew who sent it. Sharon Wells. I'd heard from Sharon for the first time in November 2006 when she wrote to ask if there was anything she could do for the shelter. "My family is very grateful for the program and services that you and your association offer to the homeless and working poor in Calgary. Our daughter benefited from your services and our son may have been there too. He returned home this week and we had not seen him since 2002. This is one of the best Christmas gifts one can have that you cannot put under the tree; love of your family."

She's been sending hand knit mittens and toques every year for the past three years. This year she wrote:

"Enclosed is a box of hand made mitts and hats from two gals from new Brunswick who truly believe in the work that you and your volunteers offer the residents of Calgary. As in the past, you have supported our children as they went out west to find employment, and start a new life, that may not have been so glamorous, and ended up in your shelter.

In our appreciation, please accept these small tokens, made with huge hearts by mothers who know what it is like to have a child that has lived on the streets in Calgary. May these warm gifts from our heart help others that are in need this coming winter.

As in past years, these items are made with wool from sheep that have grazed in New Brunswick, wool spun and manufactured at Briggs & Little in New Brunswick and knitted by myself, a New Brunswicker and Marg, a Newfoundlander.

May you and your volunteers know that your work has not gone unnoticed but has encouraged many, even mothers on the east coast of Atlantic Canada."

A plain cardboard box. A label with just my name and address and a return address in Hopewell Hill, NB, a town I'd never heard of until a woman named Sharon contacted me to ask what she could do to thank us for caring for her child until he could return home again. A plain cardboard box that held all the prayers and hopes of mothers the world over. May my child come home, safe and sound -- for Christmas, Hanukkah, Ramadan. Whatever the occasion. May my child come home, safe and sound.

I opened the box and cried. Earlier in the day I'd received a box of belongings from James Bannerman. Staff had cleaned out his locker. Culled the items that were not personal and sent to my office those things they believed had value to his family or which could add value to the art program. I'd cried when I'd opened the box of James' goods too. Those tears had been of sadness. Sorrow. Loss.

When I opened Sharon's box my tears were tears of joy. Of gratitude. Of hope.

We never know when something we do will make a difference. We never know what that difference will be. We never know whose heart we'll touch.

In receiving Sharon and Marg's gifts from their heart, knit in hands of love, my heart was touched and moved and filled with gratitude. The simple gesture has made a difference. It is felt in the brightly coloured, warm woolen mittens they knit with such tender loving care. The wool is soft. Deep rich colours. Red. Green. Gold. Brown. Beige. Orange. Blue. Colours of the rainbow. A rainbow of colours knit into a box.

This is an amazing world. A world where lack and scarcity walk our streets and remind us that gratitude is the path to abundance. That when we count our blessings we build a bridge to the other side of the street that lights the path for those seeking a way back home.

This is an amazing world where on one side of the street people walk wrapped up in the warm coats of lives stitched together from one moment to the next filled with things to do, places to go, people to see. A world where, sadness and bleakness wear weary paths to the place where shelter is found in every kind of weather, just across the street.

A world where, just across the nation, mothers, like Sharon and Marg, sit together and while away the dark hours of winter to the soothing hum of knit one, pearl one. Their hope is knit into the truth that, no matter how far they are from the streets of Calgary, they can make a difference with their constant knitting together of woolen mittens cast on needles of love.

A world where two mothers spend their hot summer days on the porch knitting and chatting stringing together pearls of gratitude for the gifts their children received while so far from home.

A world where in the cool of autumn evenings, knitting needles click and two mothers create a gift that will shelter the hands of those who have been left out in the cold.

With each knit one, pearl one, Sharon and Marg stitch together the possibility of hope arising in the hearts of those who receive their gifts -- no matter the state of their lives or their position at the shelter -- because each stitch has been cast with a pearl one of gratitude, a knit one of hope.

In opening the box of multi-coloured mittens, I was reminded that when we knit one in hope, pearl one in gratitude, we stitch into the tapestry of this world all the love a mother's heart can hold. A love that, no matter the distance between us, can never be torn apart, can never come unstitched.

This year, there are those on our Christmas WishList who have asked for warm mittens. This year, they will receive the gift of not just a pair of warm woolen mittens, but also a gift knit with love in caring hands.

May their hearts be touched, their spirits renewed and their lives be forever changed. May they know the love that went into every stitch. May they know that across this wondrous land, there are those who care, no matter how far from home they may roam.

And may they know that somewhere a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, an aunt, uncle, niece, nephew, cousin, grandmother, grandfather, someone, perhaps many someones, wait, hoping and praying that one day they will come home, safe and sound.

Please. Listen.

2009-12-15T07:02:00.001-07:00

Day 4
The 12 Days of Christmas at the DI

He sits in the hall. His body hunched over the love of his life. Holding her tenderly in his arms. He strokes her long neck, his fingers light. His touch soft. He stares at her lovingly. Coaxes her to sing.

Once upon a time he had another love. A woman who carried his name. "She was the boss," he quips. "Lesson learned. Move on." He smiles. "Now, the guitar is my boss."

Now his days are spent with this new mistress. His guitar. She's melodious and deep. A part of him. Carrier of his soul. Keeper of his hopes and dreams. He forever murmurs to her. "No. That's not right." "Try this." "Yes. Yes. Much better." "There. That's it. Like this." And the notes trip over the strings. Fall from his fingertips. Leap into the air. He nods his head. His cheek pressed against the worn wood of the guitar's rounded shoulder.

He wrote of his guitar recently in a response to a poem by Langston Hughes, Dreams.

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life
Is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

Langston Hughes

He encountered Langston's poem during a writer's workshop Margot Van Sluytman was holding in the multi-purpose room on the sixth floor of the shelter.

"I don't write," he'd told me when I encouraged him to go. "I'm a guitar man." Like John Harris, "Guitar Man", my hearing can be selective. I didn't listen to his excuses. Neither did Margo. He went to the workshop. And fell in love. With Margot. With the words of Langston Hughes. With words posed next to each other like a beautiful melody. A counterpoint to the sonorous sounds of his guitar. Invisible feelings dancing in the air.

If I may be so bold
As to say silence is gold(en)
What is its opposite?

One note or many in perfect conjunction
May not fulfill our rambunctious function.

I hear, here, a tear and a fear
And purposeful reflection.

Ambient air with plush vibrations
Instrumentally piques some inner sensations.

This longing for oneness
and some sort of sense of commitment to art and public events
makes me write my dream in transient air
not knowing the feelings I may have put there.

The guitar is my lifeblood, for right or for wrong

Please listen, please listen,
for this is my song.

John Harris. November 2009

Tucked in an alcove of the Hygiene area, sitting beside a mop and bucket, John's guitar has poured forth its soothing grace beside the hum of the washers and dryers. It fills the air of the hallway outside the Wild Rose Studio on the 6th floor of the shelter. It adds grace to art shows and countless number of events the DI holds throughout the year. And always, John guides the notes with controlled movements. He willingly shares his gift with TV crews and reporters. With visitors and donors. With school groups and church groups who come to lend a hand or simply to learn about what it means to be a part of Canada's largest homeless shelter.

He is a man of deep humour. Of deep thoughts. Of deep notes rising forth from his guitar.

His wish this year is simple. A box of guitar strings would be nice he says. "One set doesn't last me long." A good book. A gift card to Walmart where he would have the freedom to buy what he needs.

Freedom.

There isn't much of it at a shelter. What there is John fills with the amazing sounds that rise from his guitar and fill the air with good tidings of joy. A gift of music for all mankind.

In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

2009-12-15T06:59:00.002-07:00

Day 3
The Twelve Days of Christmas at the DI

I hadn't seen her for awhile. Not an unusual circumstance at the shelter. People come. They go. To rehab. To other shelters. Home. The street. To friends. To prison. A hotel for a few nights when the cheques come in. It is a fluid place, the shelter. Like the tide. Constantly flowing. In. Out. Ebb. Flow. Constantly carrying people from one place to the next. In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

She'd been gone for awhile. I hadn't known where but there she was a few weeks ago at the memorial service for a staff member who had passed away. She stood up and walked to the podium at the front of the room. Hesitantly. Haltingly. Emotion choked her. She opened her mouth to speak. She closed her mouth. Breathed. In. Out. Again. Open. Close. Breathed. In. Out. Again. Open. Close. Ebb. Flow.

I took her a glass of water. A box of Kleenex. "I first met Doug in 2002 when I came here," she began in her throaty voice, tears running down her face. "I'd just gotten out of prison. He was really nice to me. He'd give me cigarettes. He helped me. Get sober. For four years. I slipped in 2006. And now, I'm just out of rehab." Ebb. Flow. "I'm okay. I'm going to miss him. He was a real friend."

I knew her in her 'slip'. That place where she had ebbed away from sobriety into the flow of alcohol that separated her from staying on track with the world around her. I'd met her just after I'd begun working at the shelter. She was always funny. Always amused by the comings and goings of the shelter. Ebb. Flow. Her state didn't matter. Sober. Drunk. She always looked at the bright side. She was always chatty. Always looking out for her fellow man.

She went away for awhile and now she says, "I'm back."

She tells the interviewer for the Christmas WishList that she doesn't like the schedule of shelters and hopes to get her life back on track. She says she enjoys dancing, listening to music, reading and her favorite thing would be to soak in a nice hot bath.

And all she wants for Christmas is a pair of size 8 winter boots.

Size 8 boots. I imagine what she could do with those boots. Perhaps with winter boots she'd kick butt. Walk on out of here and into a different life. These boots are made for walking. I wonder where she'd go?

She's getting on track. Getting herself together.

I pray she gets what she asks for. I pray someone will read her wish and in their gift remind her, she is not alone. She is not forgotten. She has the power to walk on by the things that brought her down so she can get on up and get her life back on track.

In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

In. Out. Ebb. Flow.

Hello. Just call me Happy

2009-12-15T06:57:00.001-07:00

Day 2
The Twelve Days of Christmas at the DI

He doesn't want to fill out a Christmas Wishlist form. "I don't need anything," he says. "I have everything I need, right here." His arms sweep out to encompass the large room around him, like a delicate bird fluttering its wings.

He is a small man. Wiry. Always moving. His fingertips touch when he talks. Flutter in the air. He nods his head. Constant motion like a brook burbling cheerfully through the forest. He is sitting on the second floor of the shelter. A happy man amongst almost a thousand other men and women, most of whom do not share his sunny outlook, but who do share a common theme in their lives; homelessness.

"Life is good," he smiles. "Yes. Life is good."

His nickname is Happy. "My mother, she called me Happy," he said once. "I think she didn't want me to be sad."

He was sad once. Really sad. He had a wife. A child. A family. A home. They took his child from him. Kidnapped her, he said. He didn't understand. Now he does. He has a mental illness that took away all that he loved. All that he held dear.

Now, many years later, he has found contentment. His needs are simple. His wants are few.

He needs community. People around him. Food. Shelter. People to share his smiles. He needs his meds to keep him walking comfortably along the paths and byways of this life he's come to know as his own, in spite of his scarcity. In spite of his homelessness.

His real name is Zahir. He comes from another country. Many years ago. Today, he calls the shelter home. He looks upon the people who serve him and who live with him as, his family, his community.

What does he ask for this Christmas? To be safe. To be well. To not, as he calls it, have 'the bug's' buzzing in his head.

We can give him his wish this Christmas. His wish is simple to fulfill.

What he gives us is so much more.

Smiles. And laughter. Stories. A sense of joy. A sense of wonder. For Zahir, the world is a place of wonder, sometimes mixed with the fear he will die alone. He will not be found on time. As long as he has a place to call home at the shelter, his fear recedes and he becomes who he wants to be, who he likes to be, 'Happy'.

So this is Christmas

2009-12-15T06:45:00.004-07:00

Day 1
The 12 Days of Christmas at the DI

This is a busy time of year at the shelter, or, as one staff called it, 'tis the crazy season.

The season when those who call the shelter home feel, deep down on a soulful level, who is missing, what is lacking, who is gone, who is not there, where we are not, the tables and families and friends with whom we were once connected.

For some, it will be their first Christmas carrying the label, "Homeless". For others it is a well-worn reality they cannot shake. Like a bad cold it lingers and lingers, draining them of the hope of ever finding the strength to leave it behind. No matter how long they've been homeless, however, each year brings different challenges, different experiences. Poverty. Lack. Scarcity. Moments of joy. Of hope. Of expectations rising. Of love and feelings of being connected to a community here at the DI.

So this is Christmas.

Here at the DI Christmas is visible on all the floors. Lights twinkle. Trees stand sentry in the corners, their lights tiny beacons in the early morn. Parcels and packages are arriving. Some have names on them as they've come through the Christmas WishList just for John C. or Linda W. or Jordan F. Within each parcel is the thing they asked for, their "All I want for Christmas" wish.

It is all they can ask for. For many, most probably, the thing they long for most is what they cannot find, cannot have, cannot ask someone else to give them. A way back home.

For many, that road is blocked by addictions, family violence, divorce, death, mental health issues, lack of job, lack of education, lack of direction, of hope, of possibility.

For many, the road home is a long journey that begins each morning when they awaken and face another day in this place called homelessness.

For many, the road home will begin when they open their gift Christmas morning and discover the thing they wished for is really there. That thing they asked for, the warm winter gloves, the new sweater, the book, the bathrobe, really has been given. And in that moment of finding their wish fulfilled, trust awakens. Hope arises. Possibility opens up.

We never know what possibility one gift can bring. We never know how deeply someone will be touched, what can happen when a stranger cares enough to give the thing you've asked for.

What I do know is, this Christmas, no matter how crazy, no matter how far from home, the road back will begin with awakening on Christmas morning to find, someone cared enough to make a difference in their life.

So, This is Christmas.

For the next twelve days we will celebrate the people who make the season so bright here at the DI. Whether it is Christmas, or Hanukkah, Ramadam, or simply, The Season, whereever you are this year, look around you, reach out, find a place, a way, a someone, a stranger, a friend who needs something you can give.

Find someone to share your love and joy so that we create a circle of caring hearts opening up to the wonder of being alive on that special morning to receive the greatest gift of all. Love.

And on your Christmas morning, I hope, like me, you open someone's door and discover the greatest gift you have ever received -- those you love all around you.

Forever set in time.

2009-12-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

It was cold when I arrived at the hospice. Cold and frosty. A clear winter's night. Stars littered the sky above. Glistening white in the black blanket of night. A half moon lying on its back low on the horizon. Snow covered the ground. Pristine white. It wrapped the earth in a wintry sheet. In the dark night, the hospice glowed like a beacon. Of hope. Of peace. Of little possibility of more life on earth for the man I'd come to see.

I had called around 7:30 to see how James A. Bannerman, son, brother, uncle, nephew, photographer, gardener, handyman, labourer, and homeless, was doing.

"He won't last a great deal longer," the nurse told me.

I wondered aloud whether it was appropriate that I come.

"It's up to you. You don't have to," she said. "As he nears the end, we will check on him regularly. We'll do our absolute best to ensure he's not alone when the time comes."

When the time comes.

I thought about that time. That time when death descends and life is inhaled on one last breath. That moment in time when the physical body releases its spirit to the night. I wondered about James being alone. What if... Someone else called at that exact moment and the nurses couldn't be there. What if... they timed it wrong? What if... he was alone?

I decided to drive the forty-five minutes to the hospice in Okotoks where he had been taken earlier that afternoon.

It had been the only time I'd ever heard James complain. We were in his apartment. The apartment he'd been moved into when he'd been released from hospital a couple of weeks before. The cancer was terminal. The doctor's didn't give him much time, though James was convinced they were wrong. He could beat it. He wasn't on any meds. He wasn't in any pain he said. He just needed a place to stay. The fourth floor wasn't appropriate. Too busy. Too noisy. Too uncomfortable for him. We were fortunate to have the opportunity of affording him a place of his own to call home for his final days.

I had gone over that morning as soon as I received the call. "They're taking James to a hospice. We're just organizing it now," Sharon, the Bridgeland Manor coordinator, told me.

When I arrived James was failing fast. I sat with him and held his hands. They were cold. I warmed them with mine. We sat as people came and went. I didn't want to let go of his hands. I wanted to warm them with mine, even a heart of stone is warmed in loving hands.

I'd once written that line in a fairy tale for my daughters years ago. But James' heart wasn't of stone. It was a warm, kind, loving heart. A gentle soul, he was constantly on the go. "Cleaning up the river bank," he'd tell me on my morning walk into work when I'd meet him on the river path, knapsack on his back, large plastic garbage bag in one hand. "I'm doing the city a service," he'd smile.

Sometimes I'd see him in the garden at the shelter. Constantly weeding, mowing, moving about. Or on a sidewalk of a downtown high rise office tower, shovelling snow, clearing up the mess.

It's what he did. Keep messes at a minimum.

Picture taking was his 'retirement plan', he'd told me once. "I'm getting kind of old for labour."

He was fifty-two. The years of hard living lined his face like ridges of bark rippling across a tree trunk. He always wore a cap of some sort. Ball cap. Cowboy hat. Always carried his backpack with him. It held his precious camera, laptop and photo files. It had been stolen once from the second floor. "Someone obviously needed it more than me," he said.

When it happened, a staff member, came to me and asked if we could set up a fund to help buy him a new camera and laptop. “I hate that it happened,” he said. “It makes me so angry. James’ a good guy. I want to help.”

James instilled that feeling in people. Of loyalty. Support. Caring. When I’d told a friend, Brian Willis, about James’ situation and told him about his love of photography and his remarkable gift, Brian had immediately replied. “They can steal the equipment, but never let them steal the dream. Tell me how I can help. Can I buy him a laptop?”

A man of few words, he always seemed to be observing, watching, noticing what was going on around him. Except in this instance when his backpack was stolen.

How can this happen? I’d asked him.

“It’s my fault,” he’d replied. “There are always going to be people who want what you have. I left it sitting on a chair. I went for a smoke and when I came back, it was gone.”

“How did you feel when you realized it was gone?” I’d asked.

He couldn’t describe his feelings. He had no words. He shrugged a shoulder and said with a chuckle, “It was time to upgrade my equipment anyway.”

The laptop was recovered. The thief caught and still James was looking for value in the situation. Optimism in the face of adversity.

That was James.

When I visited him in hospital and he told me he had stomach cancer, he’d laughed. “I figured my lungs would get me. Never my stomach,” he’d said. And then he’d paused. “Do you think you could bring me some of my pictures? I think I could sell some to the doctors and nurses.”
Optimism in the face of adversity.

He never complained. Never whined. Never bemoaned his fate. "I've had a good life. The life that suited me," he said.

And then, on the morning of the day they were taking him to hospice, I heard him whisper as I sat holding his hands. "Cold."

It was the only complaint I ever heard from him. It would be the last.

Early on the morning of December 8, 2009 at 12:45 am James A. Bannerman passed from this realm to another. I sat beside him as his laboured breathing grew more quiet. I held his hand. Spoke softly reassuring him he wasn't alone. 80's rock played on the radio. He'd asked to not be alone and that "Stairway to Heaven" be played. The closest we could find in that moment in time, when James crossed over and I sat in the stillness of the night holding his hand, was, "Like a Rock."

And he was. A rock. A quiet man of gentle voice and manner. A great man. A man of wondrous eyes. A man who saw the beauty in the angle of the sun hitting the corner of a building. A man who captured the awe of water dancing in the river as it passed through the downtown core to places far away. A man who was always looking up. At the sky. The cranes that litter the city skyline. The skyscrapers that defy the heavens. Birds flying in ‘V’ formation. Flowers dancing with colour in the light. A man who saw a doggie in the window, and captured his face pressed against the window and set his memory forever in time in a photograph.

James' memory will be forever set in time.

May he rest in peace. He will be forever set in our hearts.

A Bit More Time

2009-07-21T07:44:00.002-06:00

I stopped at the Nurse's Station to ask for his room. "Ah yes, J.," the nurse behind the counter said. "Just follow the corridor to the right as it wends its way around. On your right you'll see a door marked, "Over Capacity. That's his room."

What an odd name for a room, I thought as I followed her directions and came to the room with the promised signage. He was inside. Sitting on his bed. The blue hospital gown over his t-shirt and jeans. Long blond hair streaming out from beneath the ever present baseball cap he always wore.

He greeted me with a smile. Shy. "Thanks for coming," he said. "It's nice to see a familiar face."

The room was cramped. No window. No cupboard. No washroom. No visitor's chair. There just wasn't room in the storage area turned into a hospital room for anything other than the bed and a sink. I wondered if along with the label "Patient", his other label, "Homeless" had followed him into this dark space. I didn't want to ask if there was a connection between his lack of economic status and the position of the bed he'd been provided. I didn't want to embarrass him or to cause him to question his position on the ward. But still I wondered. He must have seen the question in my eyes. "The nurses are nice. They treat me real good."

He had been there since the first day of the month. Fourteen days of tests and trying to stabilize him enough to keep food down. Since May, he's lost sixty pounds. Ten alone over the fourteen days he's been there.

"Look at this," he said, showing me the menu from his dinner. "Everything's pureed. Ugh. Pureed pork." He smiled. "The popsicles aren't bad. And I like Jello. But I just can't get enough to eat." Shrug. "At least I'm keeping this food down."

We chatted for a bit about people and happenings at the shelter. He told me about his family. Two sisters. Two brothers.

I asked if he wanted me to contact them. "Not yet," he replied. "I'd rather get the details on what they're going to do before I worry them needlessly. My one sister won't care anyway. She never responds to my emails. But the others. They'll just worry about me. They don't need that."

I'd brought with me some of the photographs he'd taken and had mounted for an art show coming up at the shelter. When he'd called earlier he'd told me about his conversations with the doctors. "It'd be nice to show them some of my work," he said. "I might even be able to sell some. I'm not doing any bottle picking these days," he added with a laugh.

"I can bring some with me," I said.

"Would you? That'd be great." He set the photos up on the floor, leaning against the wall. The light wasn't great, but even in that dim space, the beauty of his photography leaped at you. The city scape through the porthole of a bridge. A flower, its delicate pink petals glistening with dew. A duck floating on the river, its ripple trailing behind it.

He has an eye for composition and light. An uncanny ability to see beyond what the human eye discerns to the negative spaces between shapes and shadows. He'd only started taking 'pictures', as he calls them, a year and a half ago. He'd been given a disposable camera. He filled the film. Had it processed and fell in love with the medium.

"I'm getting kind of old to keep doing manual labour," he'd told me. "Maybe picture taking could become my retirement plan." He'd laughed when he said the words, "retirement". Laughed and kept on taking pictures.

He doesn't know now how long of a retirement period he's going to get. "They say it's probably cancer," he said. "I figured they might find something in my lungs. Never thought it would be my stomach." He's waiting for surgery. Waiting to find out if he's got a couple of months, a year, maybe more.

"Let's focus on many more," I said.

"More would be good," he agreed. "But I'm pretty happy with what I've had." He paused. "But a bit more would be nice."

I hope he gets the bit more. Hope he gets a chance to take more pictures. To capture on film the world as he sees it. A world of beauty frozen in the angles of glass and concrete girders with sun glinting off the corner where they meet and touch the sky. A world of wonder where dew drops glisten on a purple flower in the early dawn. Where river ice floats upon a sea of mist and dusty pink dawn bruises the azure sky.

I hope he gets a bit more time to experience more of the wonder he's found behind the camera. Time to share his gifts. Time to be alive.

How the DI has helped me. -- by Phil G.

2009-07-17T13:47:00.000-06:00

It was many years ago that I was homeless and in some ways it seems like a lifetime ago. I had grown up in poverty and addiction and, at the time, was lacking the life skills to apply myself to anything more than temp work, drug dealing or theft to make money.

From birth, the odds were already stacked against me -- my father was a drug addict, my mother drank the whole pregnancy with me and I was born high and lethargic due to the amount of valium she had taken before she gave birth to me. Within months she had given me up to an uncle and aunt (they became my step parents).

Whether it was my stepfather telling me I was worthless and would never amount to anything, or an older cousin touching me in a manner deemed inappropriate, abuse, in many forms, was significant in my life. I remember a time when I was nine and my mother sent me to the store. I ended up spending 25 cents of the change on candy and when I confessed this to her, I received a beating across the back of my neck while I was eating. When I stopped eating due to fear of choking, she got even angrier and threatened me with further retaliation if I did not eat. Then she hit me again between bites. I was very fearful of her. Later that night she got drunk and beat me across the back of my legs with her cane. It was not too many days after this that I ended up in foster care for a short spell.

As a child, I slowly became angrier and angrier. At seven, I was already starting to drink alcohol; and smoke marijuana. This was life growing up, a life that I quickly got accustomed to. It’s funny, in a very sad way, how at such a young age, some of my family members were so accepting of my drug abuse and disruptive behavior. Some members even condoned it. Sexual, mental, emotional and physical abuse was the norm in my surroundings and I learned that some things were not to be spoken. The effects of this lifestyle were taking a toll on people I loved and I could see it in their eyes. It was almost like they didn’t even like what they were doing but they lacked the skills to do anything else. I eventually became addicted to crack cocaine yet still used other drugs and drank recreationally.

On the surface, as an adult, I kept coping by doing the things that fit the life I knew. But, I began to ask questions to myself, as I knew deep down that this lifestyle could not be normal. Why couldn’t I be normal? Why were others becoming successful while I was still battling my personal demons? Why was I so angry? What caused my abusers to become abusive and to pass these traits on to me? How could I break the cycle?

My questions lead me to realize, I had to change, but it still took about five to seven years after my decision to change my life to finally achieve sobriety. During those years I was doing lots of things right. I took life skills training, anger management, and I latched onto positive people. And still I kept relapsing over and over. But I kept trying.

During this time I was in and out of the homeless shelters and hotels. I even managed to get a place to live a few times. But, no matter what I did, I always ended up homeless again as I was often careless and irresponsible. In fact, in my early twenties my then partner became pregnant and I lived with the fear that my lifestyle would have an effect on my soon to be born daughter.

I did a lot of other things during this period to try to make sense of my life. I attempted a few confrontations with family members who had abused me, including my mother. Although I was not able to get the response I wanted, I gained understanding that aided me in my healing. I found out that my mother had been sexually abused by my grandfather. She had started drinking at a young age to cope and that this cycle of abuse had probably gone on for generations. It was even possible that two of my older siblings might have been the by-products of such abuse. Another story that could very well write a book itself.

And then, I decided it was time to face my past. I phoned the father of my ex girlfriend and told him I was coming back to Calgary, clean and sober. He asked me to walk away and I told him I had worked too hard and that I couldn’t abandon my responsibilities as a father. They took me to court to deny me access and I came back to Calgary to fight. I had no money or a place to stay and most importantly I had no lawyer.

I ended up at the old Drop In Centre one day, a place I had stayed at many times when too high or intoxicated to go anywhere else. I was sitting at a table when Debbie Newman confronted me and stated that I looked clean-cut and might be suitable for a job cleaning a house for a lady. I went over to the lady’s house, received my instructions and she left for the day while I cleaned. I remember a rolled up wad of $100 dollar bills she left on her dresser. I was tempted to take it, it would probably cover rent and groceries for a month. I fought the urge and continued on with my job.

The lady came back later. She noticed the money wasn’t gone and she asked me about my story and inquired about why I was homeless. I explained to her about becoming clean and fighting for access to my daughter in court. It turned out she was a family court lawyer. I got my first big break. She ended up taking on my case and I won access to my daughter.

Since then I have relapsed and ended up in treatment. I got married to another woman and have had two other daughters. I went to college, received my Human Services Diploma and with my new education I applied for a job at the DI. “I want to give back to the people who helped me in my time of need,” I told them on my application. Imagine my joy when Debbie Newman, the same woman who had lead me to my first big break, interviewed and hired me. It was almost eight years to the month since she’d first stopped by my table and declared I look clean cut enough to take on the job. I’ve been employed at the DI ever since.

Since those days of living on the dark side of the street, my life has turned one hundred and eighty degrees. Today, I get to enjoy helping others. I have accomplished all the goals I’ve set for myself thus far and have the skills and willingness to set more goals for myself. Life is a journey of continuing to achieve personal success.

I have thanks and appreciation for Debbie Newman and the DI for helping me to start on my new journey. It is with a grateful heart that I continue this journey of bettering myself and helping those who deserve the same help that I received.

Written by: Staff Phil G.

The Ripple Effect

2009-07-10T13:50:00.004-06:00

He walked into my office, a tall, lanky man of 50-something. He's been a client at the DI for several years. Well liked, he keeps to himself, seldom sharing much about his 'story' or what brought him here. Over the course of the three years I've been working at the DI, and running the art program, he's gradually opened up, sharing stories over a shared passion for the creative process in its many forms.

On this day, he had a new story to tell. "I met a couple of your friends," he said. Pause. "Police officers."

I was concerned. Run-ins with the law do not always result in favourable outcomes when you're homeless.

"It's okay," he quickly interjected. "I've had a couple of warrants outstanding for the past few years. They've played at the back of my mind, causing unease, but I was scared to deal with them."

When the officers approached him they were respectful which engendered his respect in return.
"I figured what better time than now to deal with my warrants?"

The officers informed him they would have to take him to jail. "You'll probably have to spend a night," they said.

He laughed. "Like it could be worse than a night on a mat in Intox with two hundred drunks?"

The two officers were part of the new Beat team walking the streets of the inner city. "We're going to have to ask you to walk to jail," they told him with a laugh before setting out for police headquarters several blocks away.

As they walked they talked about homelessness from both sides of the street. They shared stories and experiences, getting to know and understand each other a little bit better.

At one point, one of the officers asked, "Do you know Louise Gallagher?"

He laughed when he told me their question. "Yup," he replied.

"Well," said one of the officers. "She's been giving these talks about homelessness to all the members of the Beat team. There's a guy at the shelter she speaks really highly about. An artist. That wouldn't be you would it?"

I'd asked his permission long ago to talk about him in my presentations. I had not expected it to come full circle back to him on the street.

The officers went on to tell him how in my talks I encourage them to shift their perceptions and their attitudes towards individuals experiencing homelessness. "She gets us to look at homelessness as the problem, not the people," they told him. "It's all part of the Police Chief's mandate to change how we deal with social issues on the street. It's sure made a difference in how we interact with people who are visibly homeless."

For this homeless gentleman, the difference was a pleasant walk with two police officers, an experience he never imagined possible. And, rather than spend a night in jail, he received a Notice to Appear and was on his way in fifteen minutes. The next morning, he appeared in front of a Justice of the Peace and dealt with an issue that's been bothering him for years.

He finished his story and smiled. "I want you to know the ripple you've had. I had an experience with two police officers that resulted in a positive outcome all because in their attitude towards me, I felt respected. Because they were respectful to me, I was respectful to them and in the end, took care of something I had been afraid to do."

I've been giving talks about homelessness to members of the Calgary Police Service for the past two years. It was recognized by senior management that to change how officers deal with homelessness at street level, they needed to dispel some of the myths surrounding homelessness and the people suffering its ill effects. Sometimes, after one of my presentations, I wonder if I've affected anyone. Now, I had proof.

People are served. Problems are solved. An officer on the street cannot solve the problem of homelessness. He or she can serve the person suffering from it in a way that recognizes their humanity and provides them an opportunity to reclaim what they lost when they fell on the road of life. Dignity and respect.

"I know how hard you've worked to change perceptions, to shift attitudes," he said. "It's working. Don't give up. You're making a difference."

We can all make a difference. Those two officers made a difference that day by seeing an opportunity to be of service to someone in need. For the man telling me his story, their care and consideration shifted his perceptions and attitudes towards police and gave him the opportunity to take care of an issue that needed to be dealt with if he was to change his life. In the end, everyone came out a winner.

We must always remember, in everything we do and say, there is a ripple.

Our ripple can be a hammer of fear pounding someone into the ground on the wrong side of the street, or it can be a wave of possibility opening them up to finding a better life on the other side of the road.

Stand by the DI -- wicked talent!

2009-06-24T13:38:00.003-06:00

Nothing builds self-esteem and self-confidence like accomplishment. Thomas Carlyle

Thomas Carlyle must have been prescient when he wrote that statement sometime in the 1700s. He must have known what would happen last night at the Stand by the DI concert when client musicians stood on stage and sang and played their hearts out. He must have known the glow on their faces and pride in their step would keep them awake throughout the night reliving their moment when they shone brighter than the 1,000 watt spotlights beaming down on them.

It was a night to shine. A night to feel proud. A night to remember.

Over 500 people gathered in the beautiful space of Knox United Church to celebrate the excellence of the performers who gave so graciously and generously to this project. They sang and played and enchanted the audience with talent that, as one audience member said, "blew me away. It is absolutely incredible to think that there is such wicked talent in this city and what a treasure to be able to experience it all in one night."

Such wicked talent all in one night.

From set-up to tear down, there was not a moment of the evening not worth re-living. Every thing seemed effortless. So smooth. So sincere.

And then, at 9pm Mr. Ben E. King walked on stage to join the musicians who had recorded our cover of his iconic treasure, Stand by Me. Microphone in hand, he walked into their midst, his bluesy voice joined with theirs as magic descended.

It was sublime.

Over fifteen performers on stage. Professionals and client musicians standing together with a legend of R&B. Standing together to honour a song that has touched millions of people around the world and a man who has left a lasting imprint on our hearts. Standing side by side in support of those who give so much to so many, day in, day out, with grace and ease here at the DI.

As one, the audience stood and clapped and screamed and cheered as smiles lit up the faces of the performers as the realization of the import of the moment sank into their souls and lifted their spirits. Voices soared high into the lofty rafters arching above and pride and joy abounded throughout the church. Its magnificent stained glass windows glowed with the rays of the late evening sun and the entire sanctuary glowed with the awe that befell everyone who had the privilege of being part of the moment.

It was a night that inspired each and everyone of us to stand tall and stand together. Together we are strong.

Last night, every heart found its home in the beauty and spirit that permeated the evening and left us sated. Last night, every heart was safe as dreams awakened and spirits were set free to become all that we are meant to be.

Thank you to the volunteers, staff and clients who came out to lend a hand setting up and tearing down, lugging equipment, moving speakers and microphones.

Thank you to Lewis Levin who played such a vital role in creating the event and our cover of Stand by Me.

Thank you:

Lanny Williamson, Steve Dodd, Tracey Conn, Natalie Gregory and all the team at the Beach Advanced Audio Advantage.

Linda Nash in organizing Mr. King's appearance at the concert and to Mr. Ben E. King for his gracious sharing of his gifts.

Doug McKeag for stepping in to MC the concert when Beesley was delayed due to flight rescheduling. Your humour, grace and flexibility -- not to mention your ability to play host and move microphones while never letting dead air fill the room -- was a gift we all enjoyed!

And thank you to the performers at the concert:

Toby Mathis
Bloody Town Project
Cort Delano
Amy Thiessen
Kronic Groove Band
Greg Cockerill
Sam Masterton
Amy Bishop
Makesshift Innocence
The DI Band
Onalea Gilbertson and the DI Singers

And to those who came by the studio to lend a hand in recording Stand by Me or dropped by the DI to take part in the filming or to make last night so special:

Kyle Savage
Barry Reicker
Bambalamb
Johnathon Love
Mike Malkin
Hoyee Wong
Adrian Montes
Nick May
Terry Donovan
Crystal Palmer
Tracey Conn
Sheri-D Wilson
Steve Dodd
Josh Whitley
Murdoch MacLeod
Tim Gorman
John Harris
Brenan Poliuan
William Dutton
Paul Du Toit Schreve
Derek S.
Megan Gerbrandt
Liseanne McDonald
Jorge Campusano
Chris Prefontaine
Larry Levin
Rudy Raduloff
And all the staff who came out to lend a hand and stand with us

The evening would not have unfolded so effortlessly without the amazing work of Donnell Blonjeaux-Willis, Jessica MacDonald, Jessica Andrews and Owen Day who was greatly assisted by Don Kletke. Thank you.

And thank you to those who supported us through donations of product, time and energy:

Long & McQuade
The NEW 97.7
Mike Shields and Jet Music Inc.
Air Canada
Delta Bow Valley Downtown
Knox United Church
Mother Mary Greene School

And to all the media who helped us get the word out about this project and the concert, in particular:

CJAY 92
XL 103
CBC Radtio & TV
Global Television
City TV
CTV

And thank you everyone who came out and stood with us. We are stronger with you standing with us.

Leaving the DI. Written by Emily Sharpe

2009-05-21T09:19:00.002-06:00

I arrived here as many do, living in the in-betweens of friends and family, trying to find a home beyond the car, somewhere to lay my head down two nights in a row. No, I wasn’t a client but it got close sometimes. I worked at the DI trying to listen, to teach and help a group of people, mainly men, move on with their lives, lift a few of the barriers that keep them here. As for me, I was a student, working on an eight month internship, returning to school in September to finish off a degree or two. It took me a few weeks to settle in here-to adjust myself to the climate, to acquire the skills that were really needed. It wasn’t the office setting (my first) that I need to learn new skills for, but rather I had to learn to be compassionate, flexible, and determined every day.

I also had to learn that many of the other staff here had a story, that they had as diverse backgrounds as the clients. It made it easier to understand what had gone on in my own life, to see strong men and women who had lived and worked through much worse. They helped me make sense of my own story, to see the abuse I had just escaped as something survivable, something to rebuild from. It helped me feel as though I belonged here, which brought me back here every day with a smile.

Now, everyday that I spend with these impossible people, these men and women who I come to be frustrated by and admire and mourn, I feel a little more able. Some of these men are doing impossible things, coming off 20 year-long bouts of depression and drinking-yet still finding the willpower and motivation to pick it up and put themselves back together. It can be tragic seeing the ones who don't make it, but all you need it the memory of that one, coming back with a rumpled first pay check in his back pocket, a smile across his ruddy face and eyes that light up when he tells you about the northern lights he has seen. He keeps me coming back, keeps the hope alive in me too.

I'm done with the DI for now-but I doubt I will ever be able to forget my time here. I hope I will get to work at another such rewarding a job-and if I can't, then watch for me in a staff vest a few years from now.

Written by: Emily Sharpe

If People Were Rain By Tim Gorman.

2009-05-11T16:01:00.003-06:00

Written By: Tim Gorman.

Over the years the DI has been criticized for many things. The irony is in being criticized for the very problems we are responding to. It's one of those which-came-first-the-chicken-or-the-egg things. We built a large homeless shelter some years ago in response to a need we saw coming. Other systems were failing. People were falling through the cracks. A storm was brewing. And as it turns out, we were right. Our large homeless shelter is now full. Overfull, actually. We're the largest one in Canada. But somehow, through all of this, and after responding to so many problems, many people have come to believe that we've actually created the problems. There's a prevalent attitude out there that believes that because we built a large homeless shelter, more people became homeless. The thinking is archaic. Many years ago, because they didn't know any better, people believed that rats were spontaneously created by leaving piles of rags in barns. They were wrong then, too.

Homelessness is a symptom of a problem, not the actual problem. The myriad of problems that cause people to become homeless are vast.

If people were rain it might look something like this: As they fall – and we all fall – most are caught in the caring hands of family. Some are caught by friends. Others continue to fall. It's a lot of rain. For many, their fall is broken by safety nets – buckets, if you will – created by social systems. There's a lot of buckets out there. The welfare bucket. The justice bucket. The health care bucket. Faith communities. Treatment centres. Group homes. Shelters. And so on. And so most of the rain is caught before it drains down the gutter. It's not always the best, but it does work for most.

There are, however, a lot of gaps between buckets. More buckets would help, to be sure, but there's so much rain! These gaps in the system – the cracks – are often created by rules and criteria that limit admission to the buckets. You need to be between 24 and 30 years of age for this one. This other one is only for women. No addictions in this one. This one is for immigrants only. No criminal convictions. Only for seniors. No mental health issues. Sober only. No hygiene problems. Only for youth. And so on...

The DI's philosophy of care arose out of this. Because it's not rain. It's people. And we were sick of watching them fall through the cracks.

So, what do you do?

Well, first off, you need a really big bucket. You hold your bucket above the gutter to catch whoever falls through the cracks. You try to catch as many as you can because you know that no one else will. You loosen your policies to allow people with chronic addictions to stay. You allow people with extreme behavioral problems because no one else will. You allow people with raging schizophrenia because if you don't, you know they will die outside in the storm. You flex and you bend and you do the best you can because it's a bad storm and you can't bear to watch any more people go down the drain.

Of course, like everyone else, we have rules and criteria, but our philosophy is that our people are more important than our rules. It may not sound like much, but it's a big deal. It means that to the best of our ability, no one falls through the cracks. We do our best to accommodate whoever comes our way. Mind you, our big bucket, overflowing as it is, has become very heavy. Often it's all we can do just to hold it up. We don't always have the resources to give people the help they truly need. We try so hard, but we do fall short. It was a big storm.

And so we get criticized. That's okay. Holding up this heavy bucket all these years has given us broad shoulders. We get criticized for enabling people. Sure, that happens with us as it does elsewhere. We get criticized for caring for people that no one else will. The police don't want them. The hospitals don't want them. The other shelters don't want them. The 10 Year Plan doesn't even want them. But we do. And if you believe that all people are of value and that suffering from things like mental illness and addictions should not be a death sentence, then you should understand why we do what we do. Imagine if we didn't. More than twelve-thousand different people stayed at the DI last year.

Granted, it's not the best situation. We know that. The fact that we take all comers creates all kinds of challenges. We wish things were different and that we didn't need to do what we do. We wish more rain would be caught by the buckets that precede us. But until people stop falling through the cracks, we'll keep catching them.

And you know what? It's really not so bad. We like these people.

Written By Tim G. Building Supervisor

Forgiveness and old times Written by John R.

2009-05-11T14:52:00.001-06:00

Written by John R.

There he was, the old man with the wire rim glasses and the walker. His thin, hunched frame shuffling along. I recognized that face. It was etched on my mind.

It was 12 years ago and I was a new employee at the DI. I had been told that he was barred but I had never met him before. I had been told to watch for since he always had a knife but I had never seen it. Then there he standing tall, wearing new cowboy boots & hat that gleamed in the morning sun silhouetted against the open doors behind him. I asked him his name, and he would not tell me. Something twigged in my mind and I asked him if he was Fred (not his real name) and he did not deny it. I asked him to leave, and he refused and watching me with his legs planted firmly in a confident stance. He held something behind his back and I asked him what it was not approaching him. He laughed and refused to tell me any thing. I asked him if it was a knife and he suggested that I come and find out. My co-worker went to call the police as Fred and myself continued to face off in the front entry of our old building. When my co-worker came back he said the police were on their way, at which point Fred showed me the knife he had been holding behind his back. He then left before the police could come.

That was the first time I met Fred, the second time was a few weeks later at the end of the laneway where he had been selling drugs behind the dumpster. It played out almost the same way except that he showed me his knife as he was leaving but did not wait for the police to be called.

That was 12 years ago, and today when I saw him, I saw a 52 year old man who looked to be in his 90’s. I know that the streets are hard on a person but I was shocked at how the last 10 years have taken their toll on Fred. I wondered if I should go and talk to him about old times, and decided not to, at least not yet. I hope to be able to do this someday, but for now I am glad that he is safe and out of the cold.

His bar has been lifted and he is now coming back to us time for food, shelter and a safe place from the harsh reality of life on the streets. I do not know his story, only the small part that I played in it. But the history doesn't matter. Today he is a human in need of compassion, forgiveness and help and that is what we at the DI are here to do.

Written by: John R

The greatness of a man. In memory of Russel Orum

2009-05-06T14:57:00.001-06:00

He was a quiet man. Stern. Gruff. Piercing eyes. He didn’t often smile. He kept his lips pressed tight together but even that couldn’t extinguish a glint of humour, or perhaps it was mischief, that shone in his eyes. I always thought he knew some secret about life I didn’t know. The reality is, in his sixty-three years, he had learned lessons about living true to who you are that I still struggle to understand.

No matter his gruffness, however, everyone knew that beneath Russ Orum’s tough exterior there beat a heart of gold. A heart that would do anything to help his fellow man. A heart that drove him to quickly jump into any situation where he could lend a hand, make a difference.

He’d been a client of the DI for quite some time. It was the 90s. A time when labour jobs were bountiful. He’d work and lead his quiet life, coming back to the shelter at night to crawl onto a mat and grab some sleep. He didn’t ask for much. Always had a lot to give. He’d share his last cigarette if someone asked. A beer. His blanket if he thought someone needed it more than him. And always he’d volunteer.

As time moved on, his body grew weary, the harsh reality of work suited for a younger man mixed with the life of being homeless took a toll on his ability to sustain hard labour. At night, when he would drag his tired body into the shelter, he would move more slowly, with less confidence in his step. Eventually, he couldn’t do the work anymore, but he always volunteered. Always asked if there was something he could do to give back, to make a difference.

I knew him mostly from our kitchen, a place where his heartfelt giving kept the place humming. He would volunteer for eight to ten hours a day, seven days a week.

“It keeps me out of trouble,” he told me when I’d asked him about the long hours he put in. He paused and added, ‘And I like it here. They’re nice folk to work with.”

He was always there when I needed something. Always willing to pitch in to put together a food hamper, or a tray of meals for a workshop on the sixth floor. He didn’t care about requisitions or paperwork or even if the kitchen was swamped and staff and volunteers were running off their feet.

He always had time to help. “What d’ya need?” he’d ask whenever I appeared in the kitchen.

“I’ve got a course upstairs in the board room. Would it be possible to get a tray of snacks? Please.”

He’d stand with one hand on his hip, the other on the door to the walk-in cooler. He wouldn’t smile. Just look at me with those piercing eyes. “How many people?”

“Eight.”

He’d nod his head. Up and down. Up and down. “Hmmm.” And he’d open the fridge and pull out a tray of donuts or muffins or cookies. “Do you need coffee too?”

“No thanks. I made some upstairs.”

He’d hand me the tray. I’d give him a big smile and thank you and he would nod his head in response. But, before I could turn and walk away he’d say, “Wait.” And he’d step into the pantry, pull down a box of chocolates or some other tasty tidbit and say, “Here. The guys will like these.”

He wasn’t much on acknowledgement. Pushed away thank-yous and words of appreciation and gratitude just as he pushed away touch. I gave him a hug. Once. He stood still. His arms by his sides.

“Thanks for all you do Russ,” I told him. “I really appreciate your support.”

Slowly he reached up with one arm and touched my back. For just a second. “Harrumph,” he murmured before quickly stepping back. “I’ll get you those snacks.”

I like to think he stayed a bit longer in the cooler that time before coming out laden with sweets the guys would like. I like to think my gratitude touched him as much as his helping hands touched my heart.

He was a man who made a difference. Determined. Proud. He didn’t gossip. Didn’t grumble. He simply went about his work. Quietly. Efficiently. Without any fuss.

He loved being in that kitchen. He loved the certitude of his role within it. He loved having a place to make a difference, to be of service. He loved having a placed that counted on him to turn up.

In his consistency of always being there, he taught the younger clients and staff the meaning of commitment. Of the importance of doing a good job, no matter what your circumstances, no matter how you felt. “You gotta always do your best,” he told me. “Always give your all. Never give up. Never give in.

Russ Orum never gave up. Never gave in. Until April 18th when the cancer that was eating him up from the inside took him from this earthly realm. Some say to a better place. Some don’t know. No matter where he’s gone, in his passing, Russ has left behind a better world and a legacy of caring in the thousands of lives he touched with his ‘how can I be of service’ attitude. He has left behind the commitment he brought to turning up every day and the memory of a man who when asked, always reached out to help.

In his passing, Russ leaves behind the truth about what it means to be a great man. Commitment. Passion. Generosity. Caring. He leaves behind the realization that greatness is not determined by status or title or wealth, it is determined by acts of service that make a difference.

You made a difference Russ. In my life. In the lives of everyone here at the DI. In the lives of all those you touched on your journey. You will be missed. You will always be remembered.

One man's passing.

2009-05-04T12:40:00.002-06:00

We sat in a circle. Twelve people gathered together to debrief an 'incident' that had happened earlier in the day.

A client had died. His body found lying on the sidewalk just off the main entrance to the shelter. He'd lain there for awhile. Had been lying there when I drove in earlier that day around noon to organize the filming of a commercial for the shelter. I hadn't seen him.

No one had realized he was gone. Short staffed, no one had tried to wake him, or the several other people lying on the stretch of sidewalk just off our front doors. It was a beautiful day. Busy coping with the demands of managing a thousand people who were in the building throughout the morning and over the lunch hour, staff left people to enjoy the spring sunshine. It wouldn't have made any difference if they had tried to awaken him. The ME said there was nothing anyone could have done. He had died in his sleep, under the heat of the sun warming his body as it grew cold. He had passed from sleep into death without stirring.

Realizing something was amiss when I'd heard radio chatter and the call for the ME and not an ambulance, I'd come down from the sixth floor where we'd been filming, to see if I could be of any assistance. "Anything else I can do?" I'd asked when I'd caught up to him outside the building.

Before he could reply, a client came up to me and asked, her voice shaky, tears streaming from her eyes. "What am I supposed to do?" She queried me. "I feel so unsafe here now. If this could happen to him, it could happen to any of us."

"He died of natural causes," I told her, putting my arms around her and giving her a hug. I pulled back and looked into her eyes. "Your safety is no different now than it was before. No one did this to him." I paused and hugged her again. "Perhaps your fear is more that you realize this," and I swept my hand out to encompass the building and the parking lot where we stood and so much more, "This could kill you too."

She'd told me two days before that, after having found an apartment of her own three months earlier, she had had to move back to the shelter because she'd started using crack again. "I don't want to do it," she said. "But I just can't help myself."

She glanced behind me to where his body lay on the sidewalk covered with a blanket. A bevy of police officers stood around him. "I didn't know him well, but I have talked to him. It just scares me though. His going like that. Who will care that he's gone?" She paused. "Who will care if something happens to me?"

He will be missed I told her and reminded her of what Mother Teresa once said, "We ourselves feel that what we are doing is just a drop in the ocean. But the ocean would be less because of that missing drop."

"You are a vital drop in the ocean of his life. You will miss him. You will mourn him. You are here to note his passing and to say good-bye."

We sat in a circle in the fifth floor staff room and talked about how we each felt. The front line staff, who do so much day in and day out to care for those who cannot or will not care for themselves, were shaken. I'd spoken with one young staff member earlier, just after the police and ME had arrived. He'd had to retreat to an office on the first floor to collect himself.

"I feel really anxious," he'd told me. "I feel like I want to run and run around the block as fast as I can."

"Breathe," I told him. "Long slow breaths through your nose, out through your mouth."

"I've never seen a dead body before." The words poured out like tears. "We didn't even know he was dead when we went to wake him up. Some guy had parked his van and come in and said, 'there's a guy lying on the sidewalk, really still.' I went out with another staff member, bent down and shook him on the shoulder. He didn't move. We realized something was wrong and rolled him over." His voice caught. Tears glistened in his eyes. "It's that image of his face. I keep seeing it. I want to erase it. But it just keeps coming back."

"It's natural," I told him. "You've had a really big shock. You want to believe there was something you could have done. Should have done. But there isn't. You did the best you could. Think about the hundreds of people you served today. You did good work today. You touched many lives and that touch could be the difference that awakens their courage to find their way back home. You could not change the course of this man's destiny."

He took a deep breath. "But I wish I could have," he whispered. "I wish I had."

For some of the staff gathered in the room it was not the first time they had encountered a client's death. One young woman had worked with another staff member delivering CPR on another man for forty-five minutes some weeks before. "They pronounced him dead in the ambulance," she said. "I couldn't change what happened to him but I'm grateful to work with such an amazing team. You make me proud."

I felt proud to be sitting amongst them too. Committed. Caring. Concerned human beings serving those for whom the shelter is often just the stopping point between drinks or hits of some concoction that will take them away from the pain and sorrow of their lives.

For the staff members sitting in that circle, the man who had passed away was not a statistic. He was not a label called homeless.

He has a name. A family. A history. A story. He was, as one client had described himself weeks before, "A father. A brother. An uncle. A son. A friend. I am an artist a musician, a carpenter," he'd said. "I laugh. I cry. I feel pain. Which of these are diminished because I am homeless?"

A life was extinguished on the sidewalk outside the shelter today. A life ended, but the man who was a father and brother, a son, and a friend, he will live on in the memories of those who knew him.

In his passing, his light has been extinguished and hope died. Hope died of his ever finding himself again. Of his ever finding his way back home.

But hope lives on in the lives of every other person at the shelter. Hope lives on in the hearts and minds and spirits of those who care so deeply for one man's passing and who work so hard to ensure no man's passing goes unnoticed. Hope lives on in the caring attitudes and willing hands each staff member extends to those who pass through our doors.

We cannot save anyone. We can only give our best and pray they will find the best within them one day, soon, to take steps that will make a difference in their lives.

And when they don't, when they pass away never having found themselves or their way back home, we can only note their passing and know, we gave our best. Our best is good enough. It is all we have to give. It is not ours to determine when someone goes. We can only determine the care we give.

I looked around the circle, saw the tears and the sadness and felt honoured to be in their midst. I am proud of the people I work with. They give their best at every moment and care when others would walk away and say, "He won't be missed. He was just a drunk. A bum."

He was none of those. He was a human being.

Standing together

2009-04-20T09:27:00.004-06:00

Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can. Danny Kaye

On Saturday, we filmed the video portion of the Stand by Me (words and lyrics by King/Leiber/Stoller) production we are producing for the DI. The video will be used as a stand alone piece, as well as for 60 and 30 second commercials.

About 75 people turned up to be part of the excitement -- what a blast.

The objective was to use the multi-purpose room to paint a scene that resembled our second floor 'day area'; a large open space with tables and chairs where clients can sit, read, eat, chat, play cards, etc. About 45 clients and a handful of external volunteers turned up to play the role of 'clients'. Their job was to look enthusiastic, to be excited, to be engaged by the music -- to look like they were having the best of times.

About 15 musicians turned up to stand together to perform the song. Their job was to 'lip sync' the music bed we'd previously recorded at The Beach and to look like they were having the best of times.

Reality was, everyone was having the best of times.

Donnell, PR assistant and Jorge, Client Volunteer Coordinator, had spent the previous week convincing clients to participate in the event. As two younger clients told Donnell at the end of the day, "We only came because you promised there'd be good food. We stayed because we were having so much fun."

And fun was had by all. There wasn't a face without a smile. A body that didn't stand just a little bit taller. A spirit that wasn't lifted.

For me, my objective was to ensure that every single person there had a good time. Liseanne, my youngest daughter, came out to help choreograph the event and to be a cheerleader with me. Our job -- to raise the energy in the room.

Our clients are often cynical and depressed. They see the world through the skewed perspective of the despair that settles upon them every day. When we first started playing the music, they were shy and tentative in looking enthusiastic. Attitude is everything in a homeless shelter. For most people, the belief that they have to keep the barriers up to protect themselves from being hurt, ridiculed, ostracised or shunned, limits their ability to experience joy in the moment of living in the rapture of now.

There was a whole lot of 'rapture' going on Saturday. Even those clients who habitually see the negative in everything, were smiling and clapping, singing along and having a good time.

One gentleman told me that he noticed something while 'performing' for the camera. "Acting like I was having a good time, moved me into feeling like I really was having a good time," he said. "In the end, I quit acting and just had a great time."

Act your way into a feeling. If your feelings are getting you down, liven them up with acting happy. If your mood is sagging, lift it up with action.

As I went around the room thanking people for their active and enthusiastic participation, I stopped by one man who had been particularly enthusiastic, to thank him for his help in keeping the energy up. "You know," he said, his body still swaying to the beat even though the music had stopped. "It was really cool to just do it and not care what anyone thought about me. At one point, when the music was playing and there was no singing, I sort of let my arms down and quit moving. The energy dropped. When I put lots of energy into it, the energy in the room rose."

"Your energy created more energy around you," I told him. "You 'changed the state' of the room by upping the energy you put into the room."

At one point, I watched one of the client musicians. His face was set in a scowl. A dark cloud seemed to be descending around him. He looked out of sorts. I searched for something to say to lighten his mood, as, in having worked with him often, I know who stressed he gets when things appear to be falling into chaos or not going the way he thinks they should.

"Don't you just love chaos!" I said, walking up beside him where he sat at the edge of the stage, holding his guitar.

"No," he quickly responded. "Something's gotta change. Fast. I'm ready to blow."

"Then change your state," I told him. "Stand up. Punch the air. Yell. Make a power move with your arm. Get the energy flowing in a positive direction."

He didn't want to do it. He hunkered over his guitar, clinging to his bad temper.

It didn't matter.

In the end, the fun and laughter, the energy of the room invaded his spirit and he too was lifted up to join in the joy.

It was a day of standing together. Of making a difference in each other's lives by being the change we want to see in the world.

For the musicians, the volunteers, the film crew, it was a chance to give back -- and to have fun while doing it.

For the clients and staff who came out to support the event, it was a day to be part of something bigger than homelessness, bigger than the tension of being part of a community that is often marginalized by the city around them. It was a day to build bridges, to create understanding and, to stand together and celebrate what makes the DI such an amazing place.

For everyone, it was a day to remember. An event to relive in stories told around dinner tables, no matter which floor they're on; the second floor of the shelter or the dining room of a home somewhere in a suburb of the city.

It was a day to splash paint upon a canvas so large that the hope that lives at the shelter every day will spill out into the city and inspire others to stand with us in making a difference.

It was a day to paint in bright and vibrant colour, to sing and dance and cheer and laugh and share in creating something remarkable.

It was a wonderful day thanks to everyone who came out and made it happen!

One Enchanted Evening

2009-04-18T06:42:00.003-06:00

If you can dream it, you can do it. Walt Disney

Last night, Mikaela and another Grade 12 classmate put on a benefit show on behalf of the DI. The evening included artworks by Mikaela and her co-organizer, Amelia, as well as guest artists and performers.

When Mikaela, a Grade 12 student at Ernest Manning High School, first approached me with her idea to hold an evening of music, art and poetry on behalf of the DI, I suggested using the multi-purpose room at the shelter, a large airy and bright room on our sixth floor. The view is inspiring, the space lofty. The windows over-look the valley where the Bow River serpentines through the city. Houses step up the hillside on the other side of the river and trees promenade along the skyline amidst lush and verdant parkland.

When Mikaela first suggested the show, I thought, "What a lovely idea."

What I didn't have was an idea of how beautiful an evening she would create.

At 1pm, when Mikaela and her friends arrived to set-up, the room was open and bare. By the time they finished mounting their artworks, along with pieces from the artists of the Wild Rose Studio at the DI, the room was filled with spirit, with imagination, with dreams spilling out into the hallway where the client artists filled the space with vibrant paintings and photos, pen and ink drawings and soapstone sculptures.

It was One enchanted evening.

There is something heartfelt and touching about a young woman who has a vision and then sets out to make it happen without any muss or fuss. Without long, drawn out committee meetings where agendas are set and Visio charts constructed to ensure fiscal and corporate accountability are measured against clearly defined outcomes and expectations.

There is something refreshing in having no expectations other than to open a space for someone to create one enchanted evening.

For Mikaela and her co-host, the evening was an adjudicated event they needed to create to complete their Fine and Performing Arts Certification before graduating high school. They could have simply put on a show at school and called it done.

Instead, Mikaela wanted to make a difference. She wanted to be the change she wants to see in the world.

And she was.

The guests mostly included friends and families of the students involved as well as some staff and volunteers.

For many, when they arrived at the shelter, most of them were surprised to find themselves in a place they never imagined they would be.

"Our clients are the same," I told one woman who mentioned she was taken aback when she walked through our front doors. "Being in a homeless shelter is never something they dreamed would ever happen to them."

"My daughters got a different perspective on life this evening," she said.

"It's the same for our clients," I replied. "The first time they come here, they are in shock. Frightened. Confused. Their lives are crumbling around them. Their hopes are dashed. They don't want to be in a shelter, yet, here they are."

Here they are. Struggling to find themselves. Searching for answers. Hungering for a way out of despair back to hope, to possibility, to dreams unfolding.

Last night, Mikaela brought hope alive with her heartfelt desire to make change happen. She raised some money, brought in some clothing and food donations. At one point, the musicians who are part of our recording of Stand by Me, performed and one of Mikaela's friends, a saxophone player, joined them on stage. They'd never rehearsed together, and yet, with the fluidness of water flowing in the river below, they joined together to create beauty in the notes they played. There was no us and them. No my side of the street is different than yours. There was simply the joining together to create something of value, of worth. Something different.

Some of the client artists sold art pieces, some made connections, chatted and talked about their lives and dreams and hopes. Some simply stood back and enjoyed the happenings going on. No matter where they were in the room, where they stood or watched and listened, no one was unchanged by what was going on. No one was untouched by the enchantment of the evening.

It doesn't take much to start change happening in the world. In Mikaela's open and honest sharing of her talents, her gifts and beauty, the world became a better place last night.

As Mahatma Gandhi implored many years ago, may we all become the change we want to see in the world.

Thank you Mikaela, Amelia, all the guest artists, the performers and guests who came out to support In Chorus. You created a changed world at the DI.

Reg's Trees

2009-04-09T07:23:00.007-06:00

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself. William Blake, 1799, The Letters

Today is a big day at the DI, especially for Reg, one of the client artists who frequents the art studio. Today, his book, Reg's Trees, will be launched.

Reg's Trees is, in Reg's words, "a book of magic called Art." It's not just the content that's magical, it's the concept and the path the book took to become 'real' that is magical.

Reg loves to paint trees. Well, actually, Reg loves to paint, trees are one of his favourite subjects. Trees have roots. Trees have arms that reach to the sky. Trees have history, a story, a life. Trees tell their stories in the leaves they drop, the blossoms they bloom, the shelter they offer to whomever stops beneath their leafy embrace. Trees are a story.

Reg's Trees tells the story about what can happen when men of imagination give into their nature to create.

Reg's Trees was created from 'found' objects -- one of Reg's favourite art forms. Another client rescued ten wooden tablets from a certain death in a garbage pile when he saw a yard sale owner about to chuck the tablets away at the end of his sale. Knowing of Reg's yen for found objects, he asked if he could have the tablets. The yard sale owner agreed quickly. He carried the 8" x 5" blocks of wood back to the studio at the shelter and presented them to Reg. Reg, delighted to have new found objects, painted over the old photographs laminated to the blocks of wood. Trees appeared.

One day, a poet, David van Belle, was at the shelter working on a play he was producing on homelessness. David admired Reg's trees. Reg, never shy, asked David if he'd be willing to write a poem for each tree. David quickly agreed.

A woman named Dawn came from the City of Calgary, Arts and Culture, Recreation to visit. "Can you help us connect with homeless artists so that we can build stronger community?" she asked.

"Absolutely," we replied.

We opened our doors to the This is My City project and magic happened.

In appreciation, Dawn, along with the This is My City project gifted the publication of Reg's Trees.

Today, Reg will see his work in print. David, the poet, will have his first book of poetry published. And for all the artists, and everyone else at the DI, we will have a chance to celebrate the magic that happens when we let go of disbelief and fall into the certitude and aclchemy of magic all around.

We won't forget you. Written by Diana E.

2009-04-06T17:26:00.005-06:00

It’s Monday morning and I’m feeling tired and ‘blah’. Usually on Mondays I find it more difficult to make eye contact and wish people a GOOD morning. Surprisingly today, everyone is cheerful and funny and I laugh often over the breakfast hour.

I have a new senior who has been coming to the Senior Centre for a few weeks now. He tells me a story about how he hasn’t seen his brother in 30+ years -- since they both left the other side of the country.

"I heard my brother might stay at the D.I…," he says hopefully.

I ask him if he has a brother named __________.

He says yes and I ask him if he would like to talk to him…he's sitting just 3 tables away I tell him.
They have both been coming up here for weeks without a clue!

He is stunned and searches vainly for a glimpse of his long lost older bro and I point him out.

He walks slowly over to him and they shake hands and sit and talk and catch up on so many years. I watch one brother quickly wipe a tear away.

What a beautiful moment I am allowed to witness! I’m floating on air and I can’t wipe the smile from my face.

Then I receive a general e-mail about two more of our clients passing away. One of whom I have known for years struck down suddenly by cancer. I am so terribly sad as I tape up the memorial announcements for everyone to see. That makes five that we know of who have died in March.

Sometimes it feels like too much and I can’t deal with the sadness but there are still those who count on us to turn up for them, no matter what. I gather 'my guys', try to keep them safe and hope they are all still here when I come in to work.

I am sad but I am grateful that I have not become so jaded that I don’t feel at all. Up down happy sad. What an emotional rollercoaster this day has been.

I hope ‘my guys’ know how much I care about them.

Rest in peace Bill, Peter, James, Harold, Ed and Travis. We won't forget you.

Written by Dianna E. Coordinator, Senior's Activity Centre

Stand By Us -- Written by John Leslie Rumboldt

2009-03-27T12:06:00.002-06:00

John recently graduated from our CTI (Career Training Initiative) and is also part of the group performing Stand By Me which is the foundation for a new series of Advertisement the DI is releasing as well as part of a video we are creating. He wrote the following poem based on his experiences here at the DI.

Stand by Us
Written by: John Leslie Rumboldt

Each of us on a path
Which leads us to one.
We must walk this path
Together
but still walk together for different reasons.
not knowing where it leads us,
not afraid of where it goes.

For we, individually, are strong.

Each of us on a path
which varies from time to time.
One takes the low path,
one takes a winding road.
one crosses that mighty ocean,
or one caresses that highest mountain.

Together, we are a towering mountain.

Each of us on a path
Which bonds us together.
We are together, even though our paths vary.
Never alone, but with the strengths of our choice
to walk together.

Togther, we are as immense as the mighty ocean.

Each of us on a path, we are not afraid
of opening doors.
No more afraid
of what’s on the other side.
Know it’s only the truth
and honesty
that awaits
for the path we have chosen together.

We are as powerful as the heaven above.

For we, individually, are strong.
Together, we are a towering mountain.
As immense as the mighty ocean.
As powerful as the heaven above.

No Longer Homeless --- Written by Richard B.

2009-03-11T16:06:00.003-06:00

My name is Richard B. I am 47 years old. At age 33 I was diagnosed with late onset paranoid schizophrenia. I am doing well these days. I am currently on A.I.S.H. and work two part time jobs. I also make art. I am an artist. My landlord for the past 10 years has been the Canadian Mental Health Association. My rent is subsidized. Everyone in my apartment building has a mental illness. I enjoy the company of a few close friends and the love and support of my family. I have a psychiatrist I trust. For medication I take an anti-psychotic, and anti-depressant and an anti-anxiety. I have 14 years clean without drugs and 3 ½ years clean without alcohol. I am trying to quit smoking and loose weight with a sensible Canada Food Guide diet.

My first major psychotic break was in Winnipeg when I was 30. The police took me to the hospital. I was at risk for suicide. I was admitted to the psychiatric ward of the hospital under a Governor General’s Warrant. I was not diagnosed with schizophrenia at that time because my psychosis came on so quickly and I had been smoking a great deal of marijuana. I was stabilized and released without follow up care after a two week admission. It is important to note that drug use does not cause schizophrenia but drugs can be a major stressor that brings the schizophrenia to the surface. Two other major stressors in my life at that time were a high stress job and a highly stressful personal matter.

I bounced back from this first psychotic break quite quickly. After a while working again I moved from Winnipeg to Vancouver. I moved for two reasons; a better employment opportunity and a certain amount of shame as to what happened to me in Winnipeg. I wanted a new start in a new city.

Life in Vancouver was going well for about a year. Then the schizophrenia came back, this time much stronger and for a much longer duration. I was unable to work and I was evicted from my apartment for non-payment of rent and unstable behavior. I ended up living in various homeless shelters for about a week or two. I was then able to calm down enough to get through a welfare interview and find lodging in one of the rooming house hotels in the East Hastings neighborhood. I was not seeking mental health support and I was drinking my money away. The psychosis I was going through was of such a nature that I felt threatened in Vancouver so I made my way to Calgary.

When I arrived in Calgary I had enough money for one month’s rent in a rooming house. I was quickly evicted from the rooming house for aggressive behavior. I ended up living at the old Calgary Drop In Centre for about two weeks. I was able to find a labor job and with my first paycheck I rented a room at the Salvation Army. My job did not last long as my behavior was quite unstable. I then moved to Regina, again under the psychotic understanding that I was under threat.

I was able to get on welfare immediately in Regina and find accommodation in a rooming house. Any money I received went to drinking. My mother finally convinced me I to admit myself to the hospital. This time I received a diagnosis of schizophrenia. When I was released from the hospital I was moved into a mental health group home that had 24 hour supervision. I lived there for a year and started to make good progress on the early stages of mental health recovery. When my time was up at the group home I moved to Edmonton to be closer to my mother. I also knew I would feel at home in Edmonton as I grew up in Alberta. My mother found a mental health group home for me in Edmonton where I lived for seven months. Then I moved into my current C.M.H.A. apartment. This whole journey from Winnipeg to living on my own again in stable housing with mental health support took about 5 years.

While I was in the Edmonton group home I attended a mental health day program. I then took a life skills course through Alberta Mental Health. The course was 5 days a week for 16 weeks. I was very proud of my self when I finished the life skills course as I then knew I could handle a certain amount of consistent dedication to a routine. This success gave me the courage to start volunteering here and there. Eventually one of my volunteer jobs turned into a paid job that was art related. I have held that part time job for 10 years. I was very proud when I was able to maintain a paid job in my chosen field again. Eventually I mustered the courage to go back to school with the goal of finding another part time job that was also art related. That gamble of going back to school paid off. I am happily employed with two part time art jobs that I can handle and I have an active art studio in my apartment.

I had the pleasure of visiting Calgary recently. The visit occurred because I had an art exhibition in town. During my visit I was asked to put on a watercolor workshop at the new Calgary Drop In Centre as a visiting artist. This visit had the side effect of helping me put to rest some of the pain of my past. I enjoyed the workshop a great deal and I suspect the people who attended the workshop enjoyed their art making. I met a number of artists who work in the D.I. Centre Wild Rose Studio. I was quite impressed. It was empowering to return to the new D.I. Centre mentally stable so many years since my experience of living in the old drop in centre while I was mentally ill.

My Aunt Margaret told me once that what does not kill you makes you stronger. My psychiatrist has told me that the reason I am doing so well these days is that I have been persistent in working on my recovery and I set manageable goals. I will always have to take medication and be under the care of a psychiatrist and other mental health support people. I accept that. I may never be able to work more than part time. I will, however, always find time to make art.

Written by: Richard B.

What Would My Mom Think? Written by Jim K. CTI Volunteer Instructor

2009-02-06T10:04:00.004-07:00

Written by Jim K. CTI Volunteer Instructor

This article was written by Jim when he first started volunteering in CTI.

Simon, [former supervisor in the Computer Learning Centre (CTI)], gives me my first briefing on computer training at the Drop-In. He warns me that the backgrounds of the clients will be all over the map. We’ll have folks finding their way around the keyboard for the first time sitting next to one-time programmers dusting off partly forgotten skills. Some will be young and some old enough that they completed school without ever seeing a computer. We’ll talk to men and to women. Attitudes to computers will range from cyberphobia to my own like-hate dichotomy.

During the Depression my Mom taught in a one-room school at an out-of-the-way spot on the prairie a hundred kilometres from here. Her clients were farm kids of all ages from the surrounding district. Some of their families weren’t able to send them off with much of a meal for lunch or clothes that provided real protection from the winter cold spells.

The teacher’s job was to pass on some book learning the kids could make use of in their daily lives. She also provided a lot of what they learned about the world beyond their horizon and their places in it.

I’ve just parachuted into a one-room school in the eye of the economic storm that’s boomtime Alberta.

My first placement is in the Career Training Initiative. The CTI program is three intensive weeks of life skills workshops, computer training and earning industry certifications. Two afternoons each week are devoted to computer skills.

The 3 Rs of our computer curriculum are the Internet, word processing and spreadsheets. Twenty years of corporate cubicle time have given me enough exposure to these that I should be able to help out. I’ll work with Erika, [former CTI instructor].

The Internet is important because it’s the place to search for jobs and because email is vital for timely communication with prospective employers. On the first afternoon Erika walks through getting Yahoo [now gmail] mail accounts for those of us who don’t have them. After that, we compose some emails and send a blizzard of them to each other. I head home to practice my new skills.

The next afternoon I tell Shen-wei (former program manager) and Erika that I’ve been practicing and I think I can do some of the presentation myself. They think that’s a fine idea. Very encouraging! Which part of the show will I get to do? Erika sets up the laptop for me, wishes me well and leaves.

I’m soloing!

Today is the day we receive email. We log in and look at what Yahoo has done with the mail we sent. We start with the folders for different kinds of mail. One folder is the resting place for mail Yahoo considers to be spam.

Ryan speaks up. “What’s spam?” Ryan is the canary in the CTI cyber coal mine. He follows every word and instantly signals his puzzlement when something new to him comes up.

“It’s email people receive promoting things they usually don’t want.”

“Where does it come from?”

“Some people send out millions of emails to people they don’t know.”

“Why?”

If you send out enough emails trying to sell things or scam people, you get enough replies to make a lot of money.”

“Will we learn how to do that in this class?” Ryan asks hopefully.

Erika’s back in time to hear the last part of my lesson. Then we give some one-on-one attention as the clients work on the exercises. I’m pleased with the way things went and I fish for a compliment as Erika and I retreat down the hall. “How did I do?” “Very well!” she gushes. I continue on toward the elevator with some extra spring in my step. Note to self – don’t miss the next opportunity to give the same kind of boost to a client.

Once I’m in the swing of it, the course goes quickly. Erika and I each do one of the Microsoft Word sessions and one Excel. Before I realize it, all that’s left is the graduation ceremony. I’ve earned the chance to give my flock a handshake and congratulate them on a job well done. A couple of hints are enough to land me an invitation.

I join the small but enthusiastic group of well-wishers. As the valedictorian, Greg provides a quiet and dignified voice for himself and his classmates. His message is one of gratitude and optimism. Greg, you’re more than welcome. Let me take this opportunity to thank you and your fellow graduates and wish you all the best in the future.

The View From My Window -- Written By: Keri V.

2009-02-02T11:05:00.003-07:00

Today I am at my desk watching a slice of life play out below me in one of downtown's busy back alleys. This particular alley that I have a bird's eye view of, is just a half a block from a Ministry that serves the homeless population, and directly behind a very large apartment building. Every day, from my quiet, peaceful and orderly place of work, I see many one act plays performed in the street arena below.

A couple of regulars arrive at the dumpsters across the way to dig for bottles, cans and any other useful items hidden among the trash. One man climbs into the big blue bin and finds a few cans that he will later redeem at the bottle depot. A homeless couple is rousted from a parking place by a couple of police officers; they have spent the night in the open air parking lot of the apartment building and now gather their belongings and head out for another day on the street. Some words are exchanged with the bottle collectors and an argument and much posturing and threatening body language ensues. The couple heads off down the alley, hurling rough words over their shoulders at the bottle collectors as they go. Another man comes up the alley and joins his two friends, they all share a cigarette produced from a hidden pocket, then they continue on their way.

From my window I can also see a brand new high rise condo under construction. The sun glinting off the shiny glass windows blinds me some days as floor by floor I watch the building rise to completion; homes that, even in our slightly depressed economy will still cost their owners hundreds of thousands of dollars. People park their vehicles in the lot below me and hurry off to important appointments, mostly oblivious to the lives being lived out right around them. The only time they pay attention is when they are accosted or inconvenienced by someone looking for a handout. Some customers tell us they feel unsafe if they have to walk too far to get to our store; the parking is less plentiful than usual in front because of construction and more expensive than ever. Some flee to the perceived safety and ease of suburbia with its stores and malls and "plenty of free parking."

I attended The Invisible Project the other night, a drama production that was part of One Yellow Rabbit's High Performance Rodeo and the beginning of a yearlong project called "This Is My City". "This Is My City" is aimed at providing artistic activities for and by the homeless.

The Invisible Project brought home to all of us who attended that evening; that each homeless person is a human being with their own story and reasons for being where they are at this particular moment in time.

The homeless problem in our city is large and the solutions are not easy, sometimes it seems overwhelming. It's tempting to put the responsibility for the challenges onto the agencies working with the homeless, and the city, provincial and federal governments, after all, they are the experts. Sometimes we throw a little spare change in a hat or donate some items to a charity and continue to look away from the problem.

I'm grateful for the view from my alley window, it reminds me daily of how lucky I am and keeps me aware of a human problem that we all need to be part of the solution for.

Written by Keri V. Keri is a volunteer and donor at the DI.

Imagine -- Written by Cort Delano

2009-01-12T14:14:00.005-07:00

Written by: Cort Delano

On Wednesday, December 24, Calgary musician and performer, Cort Delano performed for clients at dinner. The following is an account of his experience that evening.
Thank you Cort for sharing your talent and gifts. Thank you for touching hearts and lifting spirits.

Cort’s Blog, for Wednesday Dec 24, 2008 -- www.sonicbids.com/cortdelano

Downtown was empty. We passed maybe 3 cars on the way through sleeping towers. This may have been the only Wednesday out of a year of Wednesdays where 5 pm rush hour traffic didn’t exist in this city, in any city for that matter: Wednesday, Dec 24 2008. People must have followed that bright star way out of the city somewhere, each to their own little stable. Well, that bright star for me this night shone right above 4th and Riverfront, The DI.

We wrestled the equipment out of the car, on to the loading dock, through rooms, doors, hallways and up the elevator like the employees do this with their eyes closed.
The set up was quick and easy, the chairs filled, folks with “Santa” hats walked by, the volunteers were arriving, there was an excitement in the place, flashing smiles, “let’s here ya sing!” shouts from the wave like chatter from the growing crowd… and just as the first plate was handed out, I strummed my first note. Bah rum pa puhm puhm!

It could have been just my own “good Christmas vibes” that I was feeling, but people began to pull up a chair, sit on the stairs, smile and bounce as I belted out “Grandma got run over by a reindeer”, “Jughound” and “Little Sister”.

Looking around at the people I began to wonder how far away they could be from family, friends, half way across the country? Maybe they don’t have family? Is this just another day for them? But here they are in Calgary. The temperature may have been -30 outside, but all those chilling thoughts were cast away as a couple began to dance, clap their hands, stamping out the gravy they just ate. People coming up the stairs were curious about all of the fuss as the volunteers greeted them with Turkey and cheer. People sang along, we had a party on our hands.

As things winded down and the volunteers were set to go, they received a standing ovation. I sang out an old sea shanty that Stan Rogers would end his live performances with, “Leave Her Johnny” and everyone all joined in as best they could, but not nearly as jovial as the Maritimers. All seemed to end on a Jolly track of Joy, at least in my corner of the DI. People were happy, shaking hands, thumbs up, patting backs, I received a card.

Leaving, we passed through a large room with beds, side by side, by side. We gingerly wheeled the speakers through the quiet hall. Some were sleeping curled up, others sprawled out from a long day or a hard day. A few gathered in the corner around a light, surrounded by snowshoe insoles, layers of clothing, talking into the evening. As we loaded the equipment back in the car, guitar n all, that star was shining brighter than before above the DI, as it shone in each one of us that evening, and still shines on, brilliant as it did so long ago. And the words of a song requested that evening came flooding back to me “Imagine”.

Please visit Cort's blog at www.sonicbids.com/cortdelano -- to find out more about his amazing talent.

A Miracle on Christmas Eve

2009-01-05T17:15:00.003-07:00

In September he had a serious accident that left him with a broken leg, a broken pelvis and little expectation of surviving. Miraculously, he survived and moved from ICU to a regular ward a few weeks later. But, he couldn’t walk and needed extensive rehabilitation. Staff regularly went to visit him, even though at the time of his accident he was barred from the DI due to violent behaviour and continuous disregard for the no-alcohol policy on the premises.

He was doing well, and then he disappeared. He was released from the hospital where he’d arrived after his accident, but no amount of querying found him at any of the other health care facilities. “We thought he was back on the streets,” said Rob S., who along with Pat M., had regularly visited Al* during his hospital stay.

It was hard for Rob who, over the years of interacting with Al, had formed a relationship of sorts with the man. “When the accident happened, the hospital phoned asking for information on his next of kin. They didn’t think he’d make it. I knew he had an uncle back east, but that was it. The uncle didn’t want anything to do with him so we became his family. We are the DI,” he smiles, “a place where people matter. Looking out for those others don’t want to look out for is what we do.”

Concerned for Al’s welfare, but unable to make headway on locating the man, Rob had to let it go to continue on with his day-to-day work. “I was worried. What if he was out on the streets? In the cold temperatures we’ve had, there’s no way he could have survived, especially given his weakened condition.”

And then a miracle happened. On Christmas Eve,Rob was visiting with clients in a care facility in the city. He had gifts for all of them, and an extra gift, just in case. “Through the Christmas WishList, we had had received extra gift cards. When I asked Mark and Natalie, who were coordinating the gift distribution if they had anything I could take for our clients in hospital, they gave me gift cards for each individual. I was about to leave for the hospital when I realized, I had one extra card more than clients to visit. I was going to leave it here at the DI but my co-worker, Pat, told me to take it with me. 'Who knew when the Universe would bring the right person along for the gift,' he said.”

And the Universe delivered. “We’re having dinner together in the cafeteria and who should walk past, shuffle actually, but Al. I couldn’t believe my eyes. He was alive and he was walking.”

He hadn’t had any visitors since leaving the hospital. Hadn’t had any contact with anyone outside the care facility for several weeks. Delighted to see Rob, Al sat down to chat. “Is there anything I can get you?” Rob asked him.

“Anything would be a great help,” said Al. “I don’t have anything left since the accident. It was all thrown out.”

Rob handed him the gift card. “Here, this should help.”

“I didn’t need anything else that Christmas,” said Rob afterwards. “Knowing Al was safe was enough to fill my heart for the year. It really was a Miracle on Christmas Eve to see him.”

And the miracle doesn’t end with Christmas. Al is soon to be released from the care facility. “He has nowhere to go except back here,” says Rob. “He’s a changed man. He’s had to come clean from his addictions. He’s doing really well. So, all I need to do now is lobby on his behalf to have his bar lifted so that he can have a second chance. And that won’t require a miracle. The DI is a place for second chances.”

And third and fourth chances too. It’s a place where no matter how far you’ve fallen, there is always hope of finding a place to rest, a place to find yourself again; in spite of your past, in spite of where you've been or never want to go again. It’s a place where people matter and miracles happen every day. It’s a place where all you have to do is wait and one will walk right past you.

*Not his real name.

The First Annual Musician's Carol

2008-12-29T10:03:00.003-07:00

Happiness depends more on how life strikes you than on what happens. Andy Rooney

On Thursday, December 18, a group of Calgary musicians got together to hold the First Annual Musician's Carol on behalf of the DI. It started with a guy named Lester Howe. He came into my office one day and said, "I want to make a difference. Can I pull some musicians together and put on a concert for you guys?"

And he did. While the weather outside was frightful, the sounds and spirit inside Dicken's Pub, where the event was held, were delightful! Even though weather was an inhibitor, the roads were treacherous and holiday spirits were wearing out on the last few shopping days 'til Christmas there was a good crowd throughout the evening to partake of the amazing music. Through the generosity of the performers and those who attended, the First Annual Musician's Carol raised $675.

During the evening, Lester kept coming up to me and saying, "Next year will be even bigger. I've already booked the venue and the night." I'm sure he's right. The evening was big enough that night to open hearts and minds to the possibilities of doing even more for those who need our help.

On the night of December 18, I felt like I was part of something that transcended the every day. It was a community spirit of giving. A sense of belonging to something filled with possibility, filled with giving to receive the gift of music, of talent, of connecting to something bigger than just ourselves.

During the evening, the musicians came up to thank me for making it possible for them to support the shelter. What awesome spirits! They had all volunteered their time and were grateful for the chance to give back. When I invited them to contact me if they wanted to come into the shelter to put on a show, they all jumped at the opportunity.

"Hey!" one guy said after hearing he was welcome to come in and play for clients. "I've been there. Down and out. Without my music, I'd still be down. It's the least I can do if it might help someone else get out of that place of feeling like the only place you got to go is down."

The gift of empathy. The gift of caring. The gift of giving. It was an evening filled with the joy of being human.

It was also an evening to witness the human condition struggling to find itself somewhere in the chaos of a bar. A place to see the parallels of life on the street played out on the bar room floor.

Late in the evening a tall, skinny man, clad head to toe in black walked into the pub. Black hair. No hat. No scarf. His face had a tight, pinched look. I smiled at him from behind the podium where I was seated at the door. A stack of DI newsletters sat on the counter top beside me. A grey tin cash box, lid closed, rested in front of me.

"What's this?" he asked pointing at the cash box. A confused look on his face at the realization that I was there for a reason.

"It's a benefit concert for the DI." I told him.

"You mean I have to pay to get in?" He hesitated. Eyed the stairs towards the exit. Glanced at the bar. "I..." He stopped. His shoulders lowered, his head dropped forward, his chin touched the collar of his black leather coat. He shook his head. He let out a big sigh. "Great. I shoulda known. It's my birthday. I just want a drink. I'm not here to listen to music. I'm fighting with my boss. He wants to cut my pay. He keeps saying I'm lucky to have a job and with the economy..." He took a breath as if to continue on with his tale of woe.

"Happy Birthday! Please feel welcome to come in." I smiled and said quickly. "Giving is an option. Have a nice evening."

He stood in front of me for a moment. Confused. Someone else entered and I turned to greet them. He slid away to the bar and ordered a drink. He turned his back to the musicians on the stage, hunched his shoulders over a beer and stood by himself, a solitary figure in black. Lonely. Sad. Lost.

He reminded me of many of our clients. A well worn path to the bar, their minds filled with the stories of why they're where they're at and will never get to where they want to go, if only they knew where that was. They can't see the story on the other side of opening up to possibility and lose their sense of direction. Stuck in where they're at, they cannot find a way out.

For that man, finding a reason not to give is all he can give. Perhaps one day he'll give himself the gift of a new story of his life, but for now, he's where he's at. All I could give him was a smile and an invitation to come in from the cold.

Later, a young man stumbled across the floor, his body weaving from side to side. He wasn't with anyone. He didn't have a drink anywhere that I could see. And still he stumbled. Another patron brushed past him. The young man stopped. Scowled. Stared after the other man who was oblivious to their brief encounter. His face scrunched up in thought. Did he want to fight? Duke it out. Call out, "Hey man. You pushed me." I hesitated. Not sure if I should approach him. Not sure if I should get him a chair.

As quickly as the encounter happened, the young man turned around as if he'd forgotten something. Perhaps where he was. He stumbled up the stairs and disappeared into the cold night, buttoning his coat as he left.

An older man sat at the lottery machine behind me. Sixties. Perhaps seventy. He plugged the machine with coins and sipped on a drink. He sauntered over to me, one finger pointing and shaking in front him. "Hey! Wanna dance?" he slurred. His grin was toothy. His eyes watery. He reminded me of some of our older clients at the shelter. The only difference was, this man has a home to go to. His clothes were clean. He obviously had cash. But the behaviours were the same. The loneliness that pervaded his being, the need to belong, the desire to connect, I see those things every day at the shelter.

We are all connected by the human condition of our lives. We all have a story to tell, a reason for where we're at, an excuse for why we cannot give and receive, a reason why we give and receive.

It was an evening of magic. Of life unfolding. Of giving and receiving. It was a night of human beings celebrating creativity, no matter the condition of our spirit; no matter where we laid our heads down to rest after the celebrations were over.

Thank you to Lester Howe for his gift of creativity, his willingness to give so that we could receive.

Thank you to Todd Stewart and the team at Dicken's Pub. You made the world a better place by giving us a place to stage the event, a place to come in from the cold on that bitter night.

Thank you to the musicians.
Troy and Joni
Raw Boswin
Kenneth Locke
Bryan Bayley and the circus
Jonathan Ferguson
Chakobsa
Black Dog
Ralph Boyd Johnson
Molotov Smile

Your music creates a world of difference. Your generosity of spirit, the sharing of your talents and your gifts creates a different sound in the world, a song of faith, hope and love. Thank you for sharing your music and song, your talents, time and energy.

Merry Christmas

2008-12-23T09:31:00.002-07:00

And so it is Christmas. A season of peace. A time when the Christian world takes a collective breath and offers up a prayer of hope, love and joy.

It is a time for new beginnings, renewed spirits, refreshed souls. It is the time to celebrate all that is miraculous in being human, all that is wondrous in our world.

It is the time to heal wounds, to bridge gaps, to reach across divides that separate us from those we love. It is the time for human beings to stop and take a breath. To let go of what is keeping us apart and connect to what holds us together, as family, as friends, as fellow human beings on the journey of our lifetime. It is the time to connect through our human condition to all that makes us magnificent, to all that makes a better world possible.

And so it is Christmas. Twinkling lights and festive bows. Crinkly paper and mysterious boxes shimmering in the lights of a fragrant fir festooned with decorations. Tires scrunching on snow. Jingle bells ringing. Carollers singing.

A time when the spirit of Christmas lifts up humankind. A time for camaraderie. Fellowship. Good cheer filled with warm greetings as shopkeepers call out Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays depending upon their political correctness, as they wrap parcels in brightly coloured paper. A time for cards that arrive in the mailbox, unexpected emails from friends afar wishing you and yours a blessed holiday season. And phone calls, and smiles, and gifts exchanged over laughter and a tender look.

A time to soak up the smells of Christmas. Fir trees and spruce boughs. Cinnamon and apples. Cookies baking. Turkeys roasting. Fragrant aromas that awaken our senses and stir memories of Christmases past where we sat around the family table, arms linked, hearts joined in a circle of love that can never be broken no matter how far we roam from the family tree.

It is the time to wrap ourselves up in the warm, toasty, velvet blanket of feelings that embrace us and nurture us through the long winter nights. That raise spirits and open eyes to the wonderment of a world awakened to love, peace, and joy.

It is Christmas. A time to rejoice in a child's birth over two thousand years ago. A child who gave birth to this wondrous time of year. A time when peace on earth reigns as a real possibility and goodwill amongst men beckons to families across the globe as they gather together to celebrate love enduring.

This is the time to connect. To reach out. To pull in and gather round a blazing hearth and surround ourselves with friends and family. A time to open hands and minds, to still quarrels and soothe aching hearts with kind gestures, a gentle touch and loving words. A time to cherish those we love and to extend a welcoming hand to those who need to find peace with where their journeys have taken them. And, for those who cannot go back home this Christmas, it is a time to find a place to belong so that they too can share in the joy and fellowship of this special time of year.

Throughout the year at the DI, we provide a place for people to belong. A place to still the longing for the hearts and homes they've lost. And, throughout the year, our load is lightened by many hands reaching out to support us, to lift us, to help carry the load.

At the DI, we rejoice in the lives we've touched throughout the year and give thanks to those who have touched our hearts with their support, their time, their smiles and their helping hands.
May you and yours know the joy of sitting around a dinner table, connected through bonds of good tidings and joy and a love that can never be broken. May you know that the difference you make is in the smiles on the faces of our clients this Christmas as they too share in the fellowship of the meals you’ve helped sponsor and prepare, the gifts you’ve so generously donated, the stockings you’ve helped stuff, the time you've spent lifting our spirits.

This Christmas, may we all know peace in a world of good tidings and joy. May our hearts be opened in love and may everyone find a place to call home, a place filled with love and family, a place where we all belong.

Christmas at the DI

2008-12-22T10:57:00.004-07:00

Christmas is a time for family. For gathering round a laden table and sharing in the family bonds that tie us to our past with the present of our future generations.

At the DI, the family table is shared by over 1,200 people linked together through the bonds of adversity and the homelessness in which they all share. Amidst the lack of a home a community spirit arises, a fellowship of caring for each other in a world of good tidings and joy in this season of goodwill amongst men.

The DI is a busy place, every day of the year. But at Christmas, extra volunteers are needed to help sort, stuff, and distribute gifts and stocking stuffers so that Christmas morning is special for every one of our clients. We are grateful for the volunteers who turned up to support our many initiatives, and sponsors who phoned in to ensure the holiday meals were replete with all the fixings.

At the DI, we are grateful for the support of our hundreds of volunteers who turn up day in and day out to help us make a difference in someone’s life. We are grateful for the corporations, the families and the individuals who sponsor meals and donate valuable time, energy and financial resources so that we can continue to do the work we do to end homelessness, one person at a time.

This Christmas week will be busy. On Christmas morning, every client will awaken to a sock stuffed with goodies by their pillow. The socks will be filled with toiletries, chocolates and candies and other goodies donated by generous Calgarians, as well as schools such as Father Doucette Elementary and Ernest Manning High School.

In total, over 1250 stockings will be stuffed, and 653 gifts donated by caring Calgarians who responded to the call of the Christmas WishList will be distributed. Over the course of the three days, 80 fifteen pound turkeys, 60 fifteen pound hams and roasts will be consumed. The chefs and volunteers will prepare over 1,000 pounds of stuffing, 1200 pounds of vegetables and 200 litres of gravy to accompany these meals.

The following is a list of special meals and events, here at the DI this week:

Christmas Eve -- Wednesday, December 24

1:30 pm – 4:30 pm

Volunteers will be stuffing Christmas socks and sorting gifts

6pm – 7pm

Dinner – Employees and family from Stampede Lexus Toyota will be helping to serve the turkey dinner they sponsored.

Special Entertainment
Calgary folk singer, Cort Delano will be performing during dinner. ww.sonicbids.com/cortdelano

Christmas Day -- Thursday, December 25

8am – 5pm

Volunteers will be distributing gifts to recipients from the Christmas WishList

Noon – 1pm

Sponsored meal by an Anonymous Donor – Ham dinner with all the fixin’s

6pm – 7pm

Staff and family of the DI have joined together to sponsor the Christmas Day meal. Roast Beef dinner

Boxing Day – Friday, December 26

9am – 2pm

Volunteers will be distributing gifts to recipients from the Christmas WishList

6pm – 7 pm

Members and family of Humanity Unites Brilliance (HUB) will be preparing and serving a sponsored Turkey dinner.

Thank you to all our supporters.

You make a significant difference in how we go about our work. You keep our spirits lifted and provide the essential resources that keep us going. Thank you for all you do, and all you give.

Have a blessed and joyous holiday season from the staff and clients of the DI.

Small Gestures Make A Difference

2008-12-18T16:03:00.000-07:00

Written by Tait H. Age 8. His report on his visit to the DI for his Grade 3 class.

We are studying the topic of 'homelessness' in English language arts, and 'global citizenship' in social studies. We have realized that small gestures can make a difference in another person's life. We did extra chores around the house to earn money for the homeless.

I had a goal of raising $20 for the Drop In Centre. They said that they needed mitts and socks the most, so I thought I could help with that a little bit. My dad really liked the idea, so he said he would match every dollar I made. I thought that was a good idea, so I asked my Grandmother if she would match it too. She said ‘no’, but if I got to my goal, she would give me $100 for the Drop In Centre!

We bought 6 pairs of mitts and 8 pairs of socks and a whole bunch of hand and foot warmers, which the store didn’t make us pay very much for, because they also thought helping other people was a good idea. We also donated $103.25, so they can buy more of whatever they needed.

After school on Tuesday, my mom took me and my little sisters down to the Drop In Centre. There were a lot of people sleeping on the floor because they had nowhere else to go. They can go here to get warm and have something to eat. The Drop In Centre helps them find a job, too.
Even though it seemed that we were different, and they didn’t know why we were there, the homeless people held the door open for us, and everybody wished us happy holidays. The people that worked there were very nice, too. They said I must go to a good school if they taught us to do things for other people. They said it inspired them, which means it made them feel like they wanted to do more. They showed us a room where they teach classes, and they were making really cool art when we were there.

I have learned that when people need help, even if I can't do very much, I should do what I can, because it does make a difference. Just like the people who had no home that talked to me at the Drop In Centre, they made a difference by giving to me what they had, a smile and good wishes. That is how it feels when people are good to other people. It is nice to help others, but sometimes all I might be able to give is a smile, but I have learned that even that is a good gift, because it made me feel good when it was given to me.

A little bit of a difference

2008-12-17T16:58:00.004-07:00

It was a simple email sent to our general mailbox. A simple request from a young boy. Eight years old. Grade 3 at a local school.

Subject: grade 3 student wants to help

Hi.

We are studying the topic of 'homelessness' in English language arts, and 'global citizenship' in social studies. I have realized that small gestures can make a difference in another person's life.

I am doing extra chores around the house to earn extra money for the homeless right now. What can I do with this money? Should I get blankets, mits or hats? or something else?

Is there anything that I can do that will make a difference?

Please let me know as soon as you have a chance.

Thank you. Tait

I responded and thanked him for his kindness. You make a difference by caring enough to want to make a difference, I told him. Mitts and socks are most welcome, I added.

He wrote back and said he'd be buying socks and mitts, since that is what is needed. He also wrote, I am working hard, and my Dad said he would match every dollar I earned! So now I need to work even harder. My mom said my gramma would probably do the same thing. That a pretty good idea because sometimes people dont know what they can do to help but they can by doing even little things.

He came in Tuesday afternoon with his mom, two little sisters and a stuffed dog named Ethan which one of his sisters clutched firmly in her mitten covered hands. I brought the family up to the 6th floor to meet Debbie N. and to take a picture of Tait presenting his donation.

Proudly, he pulled his backpack off his back and opened the zipper. His face beaming with a toothy grin, he displayed its contents. Socks. Warm winter gloves. Hotshots and a bag of chocolate Hershey kisses. He'd spent $37 on socks and gloves from the money he'd earned and his father had matched. His gramma had donated an additional $100. He proudly presented me with the cheque tucked inside his backpack along with the change from the $40. "You can't keep the backpack," he said. "I need it for school."

As he emptied the goodies into a box he pulled out a large sheet of card stock paper. The top half had tiny round perforations. Shyly, he passed the card to his mom, his chin tucked into the puffy collar of his blue ski jacket. She passed the card over to me. "Tait is legally blind," she said. "I translated the Braille on the bottom half of the card he wrote."

Debbie N and I swallowed hard. I ran my fingertips along the perforations. Slowly, I read his words which his mother had printed beneath the Braille.

Dear Louise

Thank you for helping me make a little bit of a difference. Thank you for all you do to make a difference, too. From Tait

Inspiration comes in many forms, shapes and colours. On Tuesday afternoon, inspiration came in the form of a small eight year old boy with a backpack full of winter essentials. With his limited sight, he saw into the heart of the matter. He knew that anything he did would make a difference. No matter how small, he knew every bit counts.

What Tait did is no small matter. In his determination to do his chores and raise the money to buy things we needed, he taught each of us the difference that comes when we each do something, no matter how small, to help carry the burden.

His backpack was filled with more than just gloves and socks, a cheque and some change. His backpack was filled with the possibilities that open up when we look at what we can do when do not limit ourselves to doing nothing because all we see is what little difference we make.

Thank you to Tait, his mother Char, father and sisters and his gramma. You have touched many lives and made a difference in the hearts of all of us.

First Annual Musicians Carol

2008-12-16T15:28:00.000-07:00

Join Lester Howe and a host of talented musician's this Thursday, December 18, 6pm until the wee hours.

Dicken's Pub
905 8th St. S.W.

Enjoy an incredible night of music for only $10 admission.

All proceeds wil be donated to the DI.

For more info: call Louise at 403-699-8227

Goodwill amongst men.

2008-12-15T14:02:00.002-07:00

Written by: Alexis M. Volunteer, Christmas WishList

Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat. Mother Theresa

I am working in retail for the first time this Christmas. At a store whose contents are on many a wish list. I am witnessing a side of this season of giving that I’d rather not see. Holiday shopping is in full swing now, there is a level of pandemonium as moms and dads desperately try to find that size six pink hoodie that thier little angel will just die if she doesnt find under the tree. Boyfriends awkwardly attempt to pick the most inoffensive size for thier beloved and people drop piles of cash so that their recievers will know just how much they’re loved.

Yesterday I asked a woman if she wished for me to put a sticker over the price on the pants she was buying for her daughter. “No” she said between pressed lips, “I want her to know exactly how much I’m spending on her”.

This is the lesson she’s teaching her child about Christmas? And yet, I know that there is a part of me that has the same feelings of entitlement that this woman's daughter might also share. I have been blessed to always have had a luscious evergreen pregnant with a mountain of gifts. In fact, since I was seven I’ve had two. And while I spend a great deal of Christmas day plagued with western middle class guilt, I think I might have a very violent vendetta against the man in the red suit if ever my stocking were ever filled with coal instead of gift certificates and socks!

Last week, after a day of Christmas chaos and gross overspending, I met up with my sister and a few close friends at a place of a very different kind of chaos. A place where people argue over beds instead of the last size 12. We had been asked by another friend to come down to the DI to help out with The Christmas Wish List. A website that shares the stories of homeless Calgarians in the hopes of connecting them with a personalized gift made possible by the generosity of more fortunate Calgarians. Our job was to interview the clients so that thier stories and wishes could be posted to the site.

As we gathered in the little office awaiting our instructions, I was unsure of what to expect. I wasnt sure how some people might react to some of the questions and if I would be able to connect with the interviewees. I was handed a stack of forms and given a place at a table. On each form were a series of questions. Name? birthdate? How long have you been homeless? What are the reasons you are on the street? What are the biggest stresses of being homeless? What are your interests? What gives you hope? What would lift your spirits? What would you like for Christmas? And then a list of acceptable items: Work boots, phone card, transit passes, jackets, etc.

A long line of clients waited at the door as staff guided the first in line to an available volunteer. My first interview was with Donna* (not her real name). A blond woman in her forties. Beautiful, in a hardened way. She spoke of the relationship that ended, leaving her with nothing five years ago. About her 18 year old daughter. Her angel. She doesnt like her coming down to this corner of the city. Its too dangerous for her here. They arrange for times to meet. Her daughter will call and leave a message. Sometimes Donna doesn't get them. It hurts that she can't be there for the girl whose name she has tattoed across her shoulders. A permanent reminder of the gift she is in her life. What gives Donna hope? The dream that someday she will be able to have her daughter over anytime in a place all of her own.

A young man sits down next. He's 21. Born a year after me. We are both Gemini. Unlike my friends and I, the light is missing from his eyes. He has lost contact with his family. Made some poor decisions. “What would lift your spirits this christmas?” I ask him. “A gift from somebody…Anybody.” is his reply.

More men sit down. One with a black eye and a quiet smile who wants nothing more than to see his kids this Christmas. They are in New Brunswick. It's a long way home. I get no requests for gift cards or fancy electronics. The requests are simple. Boots, overalls, a back pack-if possible a new one that doesnt have holes.

An older gentleman sits down. I ask his birthdate. 1955. He looks nearly 70, his face weathered and cracked by the years slipping by. He was attacked 12 years ago and made legally blind. He made his living driving machines. He can't have a licence now. He is thankful everyday for the eye doctor who gives him hope pro bono. I ask what would lift his spirits. His voice cracks and tears well up in his eyes as he manages a quiet “peace on earth and goodwill amongst men”. He shrugs as he concedes to the fact that that won't happen anytime soon. He marks down an am/fm radio. The music takes him away from this place.

As he gets up to leave I ask him if I can give him a hug. He is speechless. His hand goes to his heart. He nods a silent yes. Mother Theresa said once, that if there is no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to eachother. As we stood in an embrace in the midst of the chaos on the second floor, we belonged to eachother and if only for a second, I hope that that man felt some of the peace and goodwill he so desired.

The interviews gathered to a close and my friends and I made our way out of the shelter to a restaurant where we were able to share our stories over a meal that we got to choose from a menu. We recounted the jokes we had swapped, the moments we had witnessed, the things in our lives that we are grateful for.

It doesn't need to be said that I am grateful for a roof and for food. That goes without saying. On that night as I looked around at my sister and my friends and the memories we have shared together I felt more thankful than I’ve ever been. For being wanted. For being loved and cared for. For not being forgotten.

Written by: Alexis M. Volunteer, Christmas WishList

Baby! It's cold outside!

2008-12-15T12:33:00.001-07:00

I've always believed society is defined by how we deal with our weakest links. The best of America is when we take care of the less fortunate. Peter Samuelson

Winter has blown in with a howl of frigid Arctic air swooping down from the north. Traffic crawls along snow covered roadways, inch by inch. Crunching tires. Spinning wheels. Baby, it's cold outside.

Tucked inside my office, peering out at the snow-laden trees and covered sidewalks, I don't care what the weather's doing outside! I'm cosy in my office. If it weren't for the fact I have a meeting later this afternoon outside the office, I might not venture forth at all today! I have the option to stay put, hunker down and take care of business in my office. I have the choice of what to do with my day.

The option of what to do is not filled with appealing alternatives for the 1200+ people who crowd into the building, seeking respite from the biting winds of a prairie winter. Their options are limited. They can wander the streets to get a break from the crowds huddled into the shelter and risk freezing a finger, a toe, their nose or ears, or they can sit amidst the sea of humanity trying to ignore the constant ebb and flow of conversation, the noise and hum of over a thousand people trying to get by in the depths of winter.

On Friday night we had our annual Christmas staff party. Lots of people didn't make it. The weather blew in and blew out any hope of some people finding their way through the blowing snow to the hall where the party was held. Others had to work. We're 24/7. Some people had to heed the call of duty and could not put in an appearance.

For those who did make it, the festivities were a welcome respite to an arduous year of ending homelessness, one person at a time. At one point, the President of our Board of Directors got up to give a speech. "Until I got the stats this week, I didn't realize we were in line with McDonald's," he said. "We served over one million meals this year."

That's a lot of meals. A lot of people looking for a link back to the homes they lost. A lot of bellies to fill with hope of getting a next meal and a next.

See, that's the thing about homelessness. We must care for 'our weakest links' if we are to keep hope alive in a land of plenty for those who have lost everything, including hope. We must hold out hope to those who have lost their way so that they can find their way back to where they belong.

It's cold outside. Inside, I am warm. And I am filled with hope. Winter's chill will ease into warmer climes. Spring blossoms will appear with the promise of spring. In the meantime, we might even enjoy a white Christmas. A welcome respite from the normal brown and grey tones of the past few years.

No matter the weather, no matter the times, here at the DI, hope lives on. It lives in the minds and hearts of all who care for the weakest links in their families. Who shore up the crumbling walls of someone they love. Who deliver a steaming bowl of soup to someone who has nothing but the clothes on their back and a dream of someday finding their way back home.

Hope lives on as long as we care enough to reach out for those who have reached the end of the road and don't know where to turn to next. Hope endures when we link our arms and stand together to protect and serve those who cannot stand alone any longer.

We See You

2008-12-10T15:28:00.000-07:00

Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark. George Illes

They arrived in the dark of night. Their yellow school bus twinkling with Christmas lights. A big two ton truck following them into the drive. Amidst a flurry of colour, twenty-five yellow caped angels disembarked and swarmed into the loading dock area of the DI. Some wore Santa hats upon their heads while others wore glow-in-the-dark halos that bobbed and weaved as they unloaded Christmas gifts and carried them into the building. All of the yellow caped angels were wearing big, wide smiles. All of them were laughing. All of them cared that they spread joy and hope where ever they went.

They are, Angels in the Night. A team of mortgage and insurance brokers from Invis Financial who for the past several months have been raising funds to purchase much needed winter essentials for homeless citizens across Canada. It was their sixth year coming to the shelter. The sixth year of sharing the wonder and the joy of Christmas with people in need of their support.

In their wake, they left behind over $5,000 worth of winter apparel and footwear, underwear, towels, blankets and other cold weather essentials at the DI. And they left hope and joy, and the realization that we are not forgotten, and neither are our clients.

Sometimes, all we can do is let people know, "You are not forgotten. I see you." Theordore Roosevelt once implored a nation to remember, 'the forgotten man' and last night, Angels in the Night reminded everyone at the shelter that even those living on the fringes of our society, those whose lives are beaten down, will be remembered. No one will be forgotten. They reminded all of us that as long as they are taking a step, where ever it leads them, no one need be left behind. Because as long as they breathe, there is always hope.

It was a magical evening. And it was busy here at the DI.

Amidst the laughter and the singing, the pranks and the high fives, the serious business of caring for those who cannot or will not care for themselves was taking place. A floor above the loading dock where Angels in the Night had formed a conga line to the clothing centre so that they could transport their gifts with ease, clients were moving up to the sleeping floors, settling into their beds, claiming their little corner of the world for the night. In the first floor lobby area, clients lined up waiting for the opening of our Intox sleeping area. By the time the doors opened, over 200 people would stumble in and claim a mat on the floor, a safe shelter away from the bitter cold and biting wind that accompanies every step of homelessness.

These are the lost souls. The ones who have forgotten they deserve more than this life of homelessness. Numbed by the addictions that cloud their thinking and clog their veins, they have forgotten who they once were, who they were meant to be. All they remember today is the disappointment of who they think they have become wandering the streets in a fog of alcohol or drugs.

We cannot forget them. We must remember for them.

Last night, Angels in the Night arrived and I remembered why I do what I do. Because I can. This morning, my memory is strong. I have the capacity and the ability to remember hope for those who believe there is none. I can carry hope with me where ever I go throughout my day, and I can carry laughter and share a smile. I can share the magic and the wonder of what I saw last night, of what I witness every day and hear throughout the shelter. Because, throughout the shelter, hope lives.

Hope is in the caring words of a staff member who, upon examining the jacket of 'Joe' and finding the zipper broken said, "You can't stay warm like that Joe. Wait here. I'll get you a better jacket." The staff member is 30 something. Muscular. Burly. A giant of a man. Tattooed arms and buzz cut hair. The client, an old man of 60+, missing teeth, dirty hair sprayed out around his weathered face, scarred and leathered hands, broken nails and broken dreams. Yet in the words of that staff member, in his caring for a man who has nothing, dignity is restored. Hope is renewed.

Yes Virginnia, there is a Santa Claus. And his name is Hope.

Hope is in the difference we make when we remember those who have forgotten how precious they are. Hope is in a gentle touch, a caring word, a kind gesture. Hope is in the Angels in the Night who share so generously their abundance so that others may remember, "We see you."

Thank you Lyn and Jim Webber and all the team at Invis Calgary. You make the magic of Christmas come true.

The Christmas Wish List

2008-12-05T11:16:00.001-07:00

Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful. Norman Vincent Peale

Last night volunteers came in to interview clients for the Christmas WishList. One of the volunteers is a businessman, an executive from an oil company. It's the second year in a row he's come in to interview. The second year he's left feeling humbled. Blessed. Calm.

I watched him as clients approached the table where he sat. He'd stand up. Put out his right hand. Grasp the clients hand in both of his and say, "Hi. I'm George. How ya’ doing?"

He was warm. Welcoming. Open. He'd sit back down and invite the client to take the chair on the other side of the table. To complete the interview, George had a sheet with a set of questions on it. The objective was to invite the client to tell a bit of their story, about how long they'd been at the shelter. How long they'd been homeless. What caused their homelessness. What stresses them, what gives them hope and then to invite the client to list off one thing he/she wanted for Christmas.

I watched the clients as they talked to George. They'd lean forward. The tension in their shoulders would ease. They'd relax their bodies and talk. And talk. And talk. For some people, this could be the first time in a long time that someone simply listened to them. Heard them. It could be the first time in a long time that a 'regular' guy asked their name and used it in a sentence in a friendly way, no expletive attached.

When clients got up to leave George's table, he shook their hand in farewell. They always left with a smile on their faces. Their step was lighter. They stood taller.

The night before, both my daughters had come in to volunteer with a couple of their friends. At one point, I watched Alexis talking with an older man. Grandfatherly. When he got up to leave, she stood up, walked around the table and gave him a hug. The smile that appeared on his face could have lit up the room. "That's what I really wanted for Christmas but didn't say," he said. "A hug."

It was a beautiful moment. Small. Quiet. Hearfelt. A small moment in an otherwise busy world. A moment to cherish for having witnessed its beauty.

Earlier, one of the staff had come to me with a request for a client who has lived at the shelter for two years. "He's a good guy," the staff member told me. "He's really struggling to get his life back in order. Hasn't seen his kids in two years. Desperately wants to get back to the east coast to see them for Christmas. Is there any way we can help him? I'd be willing to put some money towards his ticket. Is there any way his WishList could ask for contributions?"

As I was collecting the volunteers at the end of the evening, I stopped on one of the sleeping floors to let the volunteer know we were finishing up. She was in the office with a client and one of the staff. The client saw me and called me in. "I'm filling out the form for someone else," he told me. "He'd never do it himself. He's always doing for others but would never ask for anything for himself. Is that okay?"

"What a beautiful gesture," I replied.

The magic of Christmas.

Hearts opening up to strangers. Stories told that connect us in the human condition. People comforted by the attention of a stranger. By a handshake, a hug, a concerned friend. Staff wanting to help out a client. Clients wanting to help out eachother.

This is the real Christmas.

art.works show a grand event

2008-12-04T15:45:00.000-07:00

Believe you can and you're halfway there.” Theordore Roosevelt

Sunday, November 30th was the third annual Christmas art show and sale for art.works.

It was a day of celebration. Of spirits flying freely and of hope living joyously in the hearts of the artists and all who attended.

Two and a half years ago when I started the program, it was a dream. An idea. A possibility.

Sunday, I looked around the room, crowded with artists and patrons and realized, I had believed it was possible and now my dream is no longer my dream. It is a community spirit. A reality for all who attended. A truth for each artist and that truth is: I have value. I am worth more than the label 'homeless'. I am an artist. A human being. Creative soul. Expressive spirit. I am a man/woman of possibilities.

Seven artists had their works on display. Another played guitar. Tamara, a young fourteen year old girl who created a charitable organization, Heartprints, Kids for a Cause, so she could sell her handmade jewelry and donate the money to charity, was also there. She raised $500 for the DI.

Wild Rose United Church sponsored the show and had a cafe complete with Nanaimo bars and scrumptious cookies. Nan and Gordon the hosts, welcomed everyone and made everyone feel at home.There was never a lull in the flow of people entering the hall. Never a period where I worried about whether or not the show would be a success.

Success is the artists turning up. Success is the pride on their faces as people drop into their booth and admire a piece of work they created with their hands. Success is the media dropping by to do a story for the newspaper, complete with photographs of the artists and their work. Success is knowing, lives are being changed. Dreams are being crafted. Hopes are being awoken. Possibilities are being created.

Success is written on the hearts of everyone who was there.

Everyone who entered was in awe of the talent of the artists. Their commitment to turn up and express themselves. Their desire to support each other, and their dreams.

And with every piece that was sold, a bit of the artist went home with them. Home. To a place where they belonged, to a family, a couple, a single woman adorning her apartment with a piece of beauty.

The artists may be homeless, but their art found homes yesterday. And if that can happen, finding a way home is possible too.

All they have to do is believe they can get there. They're half way there.

Thank you to everyone who participated. The artists. Staff who helped out. Linda Hunter and Wild Rose United Church. Tamara and her mother Bev, Tom and the crew from the Woodwork Shop. The staff who ensured the art and artists arrived safely and all the people who came out to support the artists and their work.

You light up our lives.

The lives we mess with -- Written by Roger G.

2008-11-27T21:04:00.001-07:00

Growing into the fullness of our humanity means that we become co-authors of the rules by which we will agree to have our lives judged. Sam Keen

In recent weeks, a long overdue development has been percolating at the DI, a client advisory group. Because of the well placed, and timed, and spoken, rantings and musings and complaints of one particular battle-hardened veteran of the school of hard knocks, we're getting there. I'll get to that, but first, a story. It's one I heard from Utah Phillips, an American folksinger and storyteller, about his having to grow up when he came back to the U.S. after fighting as a soldier in the Korean War.

He relates:

"When I got back from Korea, I was so mad at what I'd seen and done, I wasn't sure I could ever live in the country again. I got on the freight trains up in Everett, north of Seattle, and kind of cruised the country for two years; making up songs, but I was drunk most of the time and forgot most of those... I'd heard that there was a house in Salt Lake City by the Roper Yards where there was a clothing barrel and free food. So I got off the train there, I was headed for Salt Lake anyway, and I found that house, right where they said it was, but most of all I found this wiry old man, 69 years old, tougher than nails, heart of gold, fellow by the name of Ammon Hennacy. Anyone know that name, Ammon Hennacy?

He was one of Dorothy Day's people, the Catholic Workers; during the '30s, they started Houses of Hospitality all over the country, there's about 80 of them now. Ammon Hennacy was one of those, he'd come west to start the Joe Hill House of Hospitality. Ammon was a Catholic, anarchist, pacifist, draft dodger of two World Wars, tax refuser, vegetarian, one-man revolution in America; I think that about covers it. He had to reach out and grapple with the violence, but he did that with all the people around him... Second World War vets, you know, on medical disabilities and all drunked up... the house was filled with violence which Ammon, this pacifist, dealt with every moment of every day of his life.

He said, 'You've gotta be a pacifist.' I said 'Why?' He said 'It'll save your life.' My behaviour was very violent then... So I'd say 'What is it?' He said, 'Well, I can't give you a book by Gandhi, you wouldn't understand it; I can't give you a list of rules that, if you sign it, you're a pacifist. You look at it like booze. You know, alcohol will kill somebody, until they finally get the courage to sit in a circle of people like that and put their hand up in the air and say "Hi, my name is Utah, and I'm an alcoholic," and then you can begin to deal with the behaviour, see, and have the people define it for you whose lives you've destroyed. He said it's the same with violence, you know... You've gotta be able to put your hand in the air and acknowledge your capacity for violence, and then deal with the behaviour, and have the people whose lives you've messed with, define that behaviour for you, see... And it's not going to go away, you're going to be dealing with it every moment, in every situation, for the rest of your life.' And I said 'Okay, I'll try that,' but Ammon said, 'That's not enough.' And I said, 'Oh.'

He said 'You were born a white man in mid-20th century industrial America, you came into the world armed to the teeth with an arsenal of weapons, the weapons of privilege; racial privilege, sexual privilege, economic privilege. You want to be a pacifist, it's not just giving up guns and knives and clubs and fists and angry words, but giving up the weapons of privilege, and going into the world completely naked. Try that.'

That old man has been gone now 20 years, and I'm still at it. But I figure that if there's a worthwhile struggle in my own life, that'd be the one..."

Born and raised Catholic myself, I began in my late 20s to rebel against the rules and assumptions that had been handed to me, believing instead that I have my own conscience and my own relationship with God, and I can live my own truth. During upwards of 11 years attending a couple of 12 Step groups, I held to and was supported in this same idea of choosing my own beliefs, my own definitions, of myself and the world. So when I heard Utah's tale for the first time it fairly rattled my cage; what of this business of allowing my behaviour to be defined by others; by those people whose lives I've messed with? As Utah said so poignantly, "Oh."

Here at the DI, we the staff run the show, at least visibly. We have much control and influence over the lives of our clients; where they'll sleep, for instance, or whether they can come here at all. We try to be fair and reasonable, and for many years under the remarkable and rare leadership of Dermot Baldwin, we have done a pretty good job. But other than complaint forms or else ad hoc one-on-one conversations and confrontations, usually in response to a particular incident, there has never been a formal invitation, or avenue of access, for the insight and perspective of "those whose lives we mess with."

What would they say is the impact when we bar them from services? What would they say is the impact when we don't bar someone whose behaviour may deserve it? Never having been a client at the DI, never having been homeless at all, I can't imagine some of the things they might say to us. But if we give them a forum to think patiently and speak confidently, knowing their insight is respected, I believe we will all be the better for it. Doing our work with more open-mindedness, and open-heartedness, can only make us more compassionate, and probably more effective.

Written by: Roger G. Night Supervisor

In memory of a courageous man

2008-11-06T13:26:00.000-07:00

Dum spiro, spero. While I breathe, I hope.

He was a native man. Early fifties. Proud. Quiet. Once broken, he was fitting the pieces of his life back together. He wanted to be a leader. A good father. A friend. A decent human being. A role model.

When we met, he was in a self-esteem class I teach at the DI. It's part of a three week Career Training Initiative program that provides individuals the chance to get job certificates, computer training and life skills coaching so that they can rejoin the mainstream of their lives; get a job, clean up the debris of the past, save money, get a home, move on, get going with their lives away from homelessness.

In the class, I ask what kind of ‘man’ each person wants to be. My criteria word is ‘magnificent human being’. Les told me that being a 'magnificent human being' was too big for him. His criteria word was 'role model'. He wanted to be a role model for the friends he made here at the DI, for those who crowded round his table on the second floor in our day area, searching for answers. He wanted to be a role model for the young men on his Reserve who danced with the devil of addictions, abuse and anger. He wanted to be a role model for his two sons with whom he was not in contact because of his dance with addictions, abuse and anger.

He talked about his struggle to claim his right to a drug and alcohol free life. His need to make sense of what had happened; to him, his family, his community, his life. His desire to make amends.

When we met just one month ago, there was hope. Hope that one day he would step free. One day he would leave this lifestyle that was bringing him down and leap into a life far from homelessness, as he moved back to his people to be the role model he dreamt of being.

Yesterday, hope died. Yesterday, Les' heart quit beating. Gave up the fight and set Les free of his earthly struggles. Yesterday, Les died.His friends at the shelter are in shock. Angry. Confused. Afraid. Those who worked with him, admired him, supported him, grieve.

Les wanted to change his life. He wanted to reconnect with his two sons, to show them through his example the spirit of a man. He was a courageous man. He had given up alcohol. Drugs. And though he slipped sometimes, he brought himself back to the place where he could be proud of his courage to let go of the substances that were destroying him.

Today, we mourn for Les. We mourn for the man who dreamt of stepping back into his community a proud and courageous man, a role model for all to follow. And we celebrate the man who taught us through his example, the meaning of courage, of fortitude, of integrity.

Let us learn from Les' journey in this life. Let us pray for his spirit's journey into the next life, however we believe it will unfold.Les' life on this plain has ended. There is no more hope for a different life. But hope lives on for his sons. They can learn from their father's journey. They can learn from his mistakes, from his fall and courageous struggle to climb back up.

And hope lives on for each of us. There is hope for all of us left behind who have been touched by Les’ courage to live in this moment and dance. There is hope that we will revel in the joy of being alive in this very moment, fill it with all the wonder in the world and set ourselves free to soar above the sad stories of our past into the joy of telling stories of our lives in freedom.

The Breaking of a Man. Written by John R.

2008-10-16T14:26:00.001-06:00

Statistics are supposed to be dry, but sometimes they make me cry.

It is hard to see the breaking of a man laid out by statistics. To see a man who is trying to do it all right; pay the mortgage, pay his bills, go to work and do everything he is supposed to do be reduced to nothing is heart breaking.

He first stayed two nights in 2005. He was sober.

He does not appear again for almost a year and a half, but now he is drinking heavily. He goes through periods where he seems to be trying very hard, and is always sober, but then things fall apart. He is hospitalized with a life-threatening infection and almost dies, but is able to make a full recovery.

Our records show he is staying with us more often, drinking less, but still struggling with the stress of meeting his financial obligations, and keeping his employment while living in a shelter. He might be offered a transfer with his work, but not to where he really wants to go; back home to the place that he has been paying the mortgage on for all these years.

When I see statistics like this, I want to cry, and then I get angry that we as Canadians allow this to be.

Written by: John R., Manager of Data Systems

Love, fellowship, and support at the DI Written by Roger G.

2008-10-15T16:02:00.000-06:00

I have at times prided myself on my work with clients at the DI, believing that I was a good listener and sometimes a useful guide. But one day this summer I was humbled to stand and watch tough love at work.

For a few months, we had two guys on 4th floor who I'll call Billy and Bobby. They were "good ol' boys", Maritimers both, and gave me some interesting challenges during their stay with us; never before or since have I had to put a lid on a game of Frisbee taking place in the hallway, for instance. One evening a young client from 3rd floor who I'll call Sam came to the door and told me he wanted to see Bobby. I asked him to wait at the stairwell door (we discourage visiting between the sleeping floors, and only 4th floor clients are allowed on the 4th floor) while I went and found Bobby, as usual, playing guitar on the smoke deck. I told him about his visitor, watched him meet Sam at the door, and got busy with something else for a couple of minutes.
Next thing I knew their voices were getting louder, meaning that I'd need to step in on behalf of dozens of sleeping men in hearing distance of the argument.

"We can see it in your face," was the only phrase I caught.

Billy joined in at this point, ushering the other two out the door and into the stairwell, waving a sign to me that they would take this outside and that he and Bobby would return shortly.

I followed even so, and caught the word "dope" as their voices receded down the stairs. Billy returned first, and got more honest with me than he ever had.

"I'm a crackhead, Roger," he said. "Sam is the one who helped me and Bobby clean up three weeks ago. Now he's having a rough time, and he gave Bobby his money today so that he wouldn't go out and spend it on dope. Now he wants it back, and we're not giving it to him."

Almost on cue, Bobby came back in the door with a determined Sam following close behind, and I watched as Billy and Bobby stood their ground with their friend; "No, we won't! We care about you; we love you, man."

The DI has a pretty firm policy against debt collecting in the building, not to mention keeping peace and quiet on the sleeping floors, giving me the authority to inform Sam that he must go back downstairs as I called on the radio for staff backup to make sure he would do so. In less than a minute Sam was facing Billy, Bobby, and 4 staff on the stairs, but he took only a few reluctant steps until I threatened that I'd call CPS if necessary. Finally he walked with Bobby and me down to the first floor and made no attempt to follow us back upstairs again when we left him, leaving me to reflect on how ignorant I am of what happens at the DI. But I also found myself feeling good about my job, knowing that there must be far more tough love happening all around me than I had ever imagined.

Billy and Bobby got their own place and moved out in August. I still see Sam in the building; he says "Hello", and shakes my hand. And I remember that, while there's a time and a place for a floor supervisor to speak up, when love and true strength are at work the smartest thing I can do is shut up and get out the way.

Written by: Roger G.
Night supervisor

If not me, who?

2008-10-10T14:26:00.000-06:00

It is mid afternoon. I am walking on 4th Ave. back towards the DI.

On the avenue traffic speeds towards me, racing to reach the safety of the downtown core. It comes in spits and spurts, regulated by the light at the end of the bridge that connects this part of the city to the northern shore. I walk. Traffic stops coming. The avenue is empty.

Ahead, I spy a group of people sitting on a small knoll. Two men stand facing eachother. One tall. The other, hunched over. His grey jacket slumped back off his shoulders, his hands forward, palms facing up. The group is watching the duo. Faces turned up in anticipation of the drama about to unfold. Drama I am not prepared for.

Suddenly, the taller man flips the younger man to the ground. He laughs. Says something I can't hear to the crowd. I want to hear nervousness in their responsive laughter. I could be imagining it. The taller man leans over the body of the man he's flipped to the ground. He tears the earphones from his head. Rips the CD player from the pocket of his jacket. He looks around. No traffic. He musn't see me. Or, if he does, he doesn't see the threat in a lone woman walking down the street. He stands up. Lifts his boot and stomps it on the head of the man on the ground. He steps over the man and sits down with the group.

I am stunned. Not quite sure I actually saw what I saw. I am alone. One person. A group of four or six sitting on the hillside. I know the tall man is the dealer. I know the others are his clients. I know I need to do something. I don't know what. I am at risk. I keep walking. I look for a police cruiser. There's normally one in the neighbourhood. Around the corner, at the side of the hotel, I see one.

I walk over. The officer knows me. I tell him what I witnessed. "I'll check it out right away," he says. With a wave and a parting, "I know where to find you if I need you," he flips on his lights and spins around, turns the corner towards the group. I walk back to my office.

Behind me, I see the cruiser in front of the tableau of people sitting on the hill. I know nothing will happen. I know the man whose head was stomped won't say anything. I know the group will not reveal the perpetrator of the drama that unfolded. I know all this and still I want it to be different. I want them to stop doing what they're doing to kill themselves. To stop hurting eachother. To stop giving up on themselves and life and living. I want them to awaken.

I have no questions today. No answers. I know I cannot change the world. I know I cannot stop anyone from speeding down the wrong way on a one way street to destiny. I can only do what I can do. I can only give my best. Do my best. Be my best. My best is good enough.

And still my heart cries. My soul weeps for those who have lost their way and find themselves in the hellhole of an addiction, living on the street, living by their wits, living off the drugs dealers peddle that keep them from turning away from street life back to mainstreet.

Yesterday, in the self-esteem course I was teaching one of the students asked me after we had talked about attitude and the benefits of staying your course to reach your goals, "But how do I do that when I get out of rehab and have to come back here? How do I quit using when everyone around me wants me to keep being who I was and keeps encouraging me to go back to my old ways?"

"Do you want to go back to your old ways?" I asked him.

His response was fast and vehement. "No."

"I don't have the answer for you," I told him. "All I can tell you is, the choice is yours. If getting out of here is your goal, measure every step you take against your goal. Does it take you closer, or further away from where you want to be?"

"Yeah, but these guys are my friends. When I won't go partying with them, they make fun of me, they even pick fights with me."

"Friends don't hold you back from attaining your goals, but an addict will always try to keep you from breaking free," I told him. "If you break free then that means they could too. And what addict wants to know they can get away from the thing they use to ease their pain? You are an inspiration, and a curse. In you, they see the possibilities. And possibilities are scary."

"So, I could be a role model?" he asked. (We had spoken of the kind of man he wanted to be earlier. A role model was key.)

"You are their role model. You are their light, their hope, their possibility. They're afraid of what you're doing but they want what you're doing to be possible for them. Facing their desire, however, is scary. What you've done is the unknown. The dealers got what they know and he knows how to keep them using."

"Yeah," he agreed. "The last thing the dealer wants is to lose another customer."

Another student piped up. "Who cares. There'll always be another one after the last one."

The reality of addictions. "There'll always be another one after the last one."

For that young man lying on the hillside, there is always hope he will awaken. As long as he stays alive. For the dealer, there is always hope he will awaken too. As long as he stays alive. Perhaps one day he will face the consequences of his actions. Perhaps one day, someone will do to him what he did to another human being and he will awaken from the darkness.

I don't know. I do know that to give up on those who are lost is to give into the darkness of their despair. To give up would be to give over control to those who would want to deal with impunity in the underbelly of someone's addiction. To give up would be impossible.

I am proud of the work I do. I am proud of the people I work with. The courageous souls who will not give up on anyone, even when that person has given up on themselves. I am grateful for the work I do. I am grateful there are those who will not give up, who continue to fight for the oppressed all over this world. I am grateful for the officer who so quickly responded to my call. I am grateful for the students in my class yesterday who are courageously moving forward, even while they struggle to make sense of the world around them. I am grateful I live in a world where possibilities exist, where spirits can awaken to the beauty of our human condition, where ever they are in the world today.

I am grateful I can make a difference.

If not me, who? If not now, when?

Because of My Uniqueness. (By Jerry)

2008-10-01T11:54:00.001-06:00

Jerry wrote the following as part of an assignment in a job-readiness training program he was taking here at the DI. These are his experiences, his words, his beliefs.

The opinions expressed in this article are the opinions of the author only.

Hello, I have been asked to relate an experience of “discrimination or prejudice towards me based on my appearance or living situation”, and how I reacted to it. There are two situations that come to mind so I pass them both along.

It was a warm sunny May day about eight years ago. Although it was warm, the wind was blowing and thus messing with my otherwise well tended tresses. I was not having a particularly good day, and really just wanted to be left alone and pursue my own interests.

I was heading east on 7 ave. (between 9 and 8 street), when from a group of midlevel office people that were sitting on the steps of an office building I hear, “ Hey look, Encino Man.”

It took me two or three steps to fully register what the “gentleman” had said about me, but when realization did hit, I stopped, turned around, walked back to the group, stopping in front of the quipster.

In my most restrained manner I said, “ I’m sure that you’re parents taught you better manners than that.”

Whereupon he said, “ Oh sorry, should I have said Mr. Encino Man?”

I am sorry to say, I slapped him, (ok, maybe I’m not sorry), told him that “his grandparents should have done THAT more often”, and walked away.

This may not sound like a large transgression in the big picture of life, but then you have to understand just how often in a month, week, or day that something like this or worse happens. How often does a row of vehicles at a stop and go light hit their power locks as you are walking down the sidewalk?? As if I’m going to carjack them while they’re stuck in traffic!! How about the mother with stroller and toddler, who crosses the street rather than walk by you. Let us not forget about the two little old ladies at the department store who purposefully go through the door eight feet away even though you were holding the door right in front of them for them. This is the type of attitude I have to deal with day in and day out.

The following is another specific example of unprofessional behavior. It might be noted also that it is not always in ones best interest to retaliate against prejudice. This incident happened in the middle of winter. At one time in the not too distant past, the drug trade was driven across the river and into the environs of the neighborhood coffee shop.

I was being driven back downtown about six in the morning intending to be dropped at the coffee shop. Upon pulling into the parking lot, it was evident that the police were rousting the nefarious element hanging about. As to be expected, the car was surrounded, our identification checked and we were freed to leave.

Rather than go to the coffee shop, (too much action about), I figured to grab my coffee at the Esso station. On the walk across the lot it came to my attention that the police had a cruiser in the south west corner of the lot with an officer announcing through the PA system that, “ You crack heads stay on that side of the bridge. You have no business here. Go back to your side of the bridge.”

This was being repeated over and over by the officers. It should be made clear that the people he was talking to were the fellows who work everyday, and are picked up by their rides or bosses at the coffee shop. The majority of them weren’t druggies at all!!!

Though I was miffed, I made my way without incident into the station and poured my coffee. While waiting to pay, one of the officers that checked my friends and me came in. I said to him, “I understand the concern of the businesses and neighborhood about the criminal element and activity in the area. But is it really necessary to group everyone under one umbrella?”

The officer understood that I was talking not only about myself, but also about the people just wanting to come over to conduct their normal daily routine before going to work. The reply given to me was, “ If you look like them, talk with them and act like them, then you must be one of them.”

The camel screamed, its back was finally broken.

In a state of controlled cold fury I looked directly into the officers eyes and said, “Using that premise, looking at you I should see a guy who leaves his family at home on a Saturday afternoon, goes to a fellow officer’s house for a barbeque, drinks his face off all afternoon, jumps into his sports ute all f'd up, drives the wrong way down 22X, has a head on with another vehicle killing all four occupants two of whom were children. It’s a good thing I’m not that cynical yet.”

(The incident I have just described DID happen with an officer of CPS. The outcome was that the officer was suspended with pay pending his successful completion of a twenty-eight day treatment program whereupon he was reinstated to the force.) The officer immediately left the store, which is when I realized that I had made my point too well. When I left the store, the officers were waiting for me. They called me to their car, I was apologizing as I was nearing them. Fortunate for me these officers were not blinded by their biases. I received a dressing down, but was allowed to leave unscathed.

These are just a couple of examples of the type of bias and prejudice that I endure on nearly a daily basis. Generally I accept people’s comments, actions, and behaviors, it was not always this way. Often I get asked why I don’t change the way I look. To this I always say, “What does it matter how I look compared to who I am.” Richard Nixon was clean cut, Adolph Hitler was groomed and brushed, yet they were both less than nice people. It is nice to know that not all people have phobias about people like me.

There are times where because of my uniqueness I am hounded.

I guess I’ve got to accept the good with the bad.

Change Happens When The Caring Starts

2008-08-21T09:38:00.001-06:00

Written and Submitted by Christa B. Night Staff Satellite Location: 2507

It was just over a year ago that I met Buddy. I was a new transfer staff member and he was a long time resident. My first introduction to him was when there not enough towels for him at 02:45 am and he was grumpy at the office staff. Two hours later he threw back his lunch as he did not like it. This interaction with him went on for a few weeks. There were times when I got a smile out of him however those were rare times.

One morning, I was working at the office during wake ups and my supervisor asked me to take a look at Buddy’s leg. Having had education in health care, I assessed his leg and found it to be reddened, swollen, warm to touch and painful to weight gain on. I asked Buddy to seek medical attention during his day and if he chose not to do so, advised him that medical attention would be sought out for him that night. As it turned out, the redness had traveled up his leg during the day and he was finding it hard to walk, which caused concern for all staff members at the main building on Riverfront Avenue. Non Emergency E.M.S. was called out to assess his leg.

Later on, I found out that Buddy had not sought attention as he did not have the provincial medical coverage and was scared that he would be billed. E.M.S. transported him to the hospital that night, and I packed a bag of toiletries with some of his clothes for him to have at the hospital, which was sent up with a staff member. Buddy was in the hospital for a few rotations, calling every few days to let the staff know that he was all right.

The night that he returned to the warehouse from hospital will be one that I will never forget. He was the first one on the second bus and when he stepped onto the bus and saw me, he said, “How many thank you’s should I give you. You saved my leg.”

On the ride out to the warehouse he shared that he was in the hospital under isolation and was treated for cellulitis, which the doctor feared would have turned into the flesh eating infection if it had not been caught and treated when it was.

Since that night, Buddy and I have developed a helping relationship. He's come to me to help him with his pension application as well as other things that he needed advice or feedback on. He accepts a towel that I keep back for him at night, and he never complains of his lunch. He has opened up to the staff and allowed us into his life.

Buddy and other hard to love guys are the reason that I do what I do. Someone needs to care for those who society has not cared for.

Change happens when the caring starts.

Written by Christa B. Night staff, Satellite location

Falling down to get back up.

2008-08-15T09:11:00.002-06:00

I sat in my 6th floor office and watched an elderly man stumble down the street far below. He pushed his metal walker before him, a human barstool on the move. He came to the curb, attempted to navigate the bump, and fell. He struggled to get up but with each attempt, he fell back to the ground. Sitting up in my eerie, I had an eagle's eye view, and I was helpless. I phoned the security desk on the main floor to ask a staff to go out and help him but as I started to speak, two people came up and assisted the man. Later I went downstairs to ensure the man had made it safely to his destination, the DI. He had.

"Our greatest glory consists not in never failing but in rising every time we fall." Oliver Goldsmith

This man fell down. He got up. A tiny success in a seemingly endless journey through the haze of alcohol that constantly fogs his mind. Once again, I am in awe of the spirit's need to live, of the drive for survival.

This man's life may have little sense to it. It may appear to be a futile attempt to wrest a few more moments or days from fate. But, in the end, this man's life is all he's got. He is a late stage alcoholic. A man for whom sobriety is a long lost relative to the despair that permeates his spirit like alcohol pouring through his veins.

There is little we can do for him other than provide a safe landing when he falls. Provide him assistance with his daily ablutions, clean him up when he messes up, watch over him when he has a seizure and provide him food and a safe place to sleep when he comes in from the street.

The help we provide him is not based on 'cleaning him up' or even getting him into rehab. Too many brain cells have hit the dust, too many synapses have mis-fired. He is walking towards his destiny. A tragic story of one man's life gone grievously astray. A human being no long able to do anything other than what he's doing today -- drinking himself to death.

Is it tragic? Absolutely. Did he make choices? Absolutely. Do his choices make a difference to him today? They make a difference to his quality of life, what he might have done, or been or had. But for today, his choices are limited to a narrow corridor of insobriety, a singular path to keeping himself numbed under the influence.

Does this man need help today? Absolutely. Does he deserve to be helped? Yes.

Regardless of the circumstances that led him down his dark and drunken street, he is where he's at. He is helpless to help himself. All we can do is watch over him as best we can. Provide him the help he needs and will take, and ultimately, note his passing and gather his belongings when he's gone.

We've had and have many clients like this man. Individuals self-medicating themselves to death. We try to intervene whenever we can. We attempt to redirect their attention to some other path. Sometimes, no matter what we do, we cannot divert them from their self-directed date with destiny. For whatever reason, their lives have gone wildly astray, their paths become a constant struggle to get up.

Regardless of the reason, we cannot deny their need. It would be inhumane. No one deserves the street. No one deserves to die there. If he were a dog who had been hit by a car and been left bleeding on the road, we would not hesitate to pick him up and rush him to a vet. And yet, with a human being, we often stop in judgement and say, "It's his own fault."

In the end, it doesn't make a difference who's fault it is. He is falling and needs help. We cannot change his destiny. All we can do is provide the best care we can while he walks in the direction he's going. All we can do is walk beside him whenever we can, hold his hand when he needs us, and let him know we care enough to continue to make whatever difference we can.

Yee Haw! It's Stampede in the City

2008-07-09T09:59:00.000-06:00

It's Stampede once again in Calgary. Wannbe cowboys dust off their boots and don their Stetsons to hit the trails, and the bars, for a foot stompin' good time in the new heart of the west. Suddenly every street side cafe is corralled off with wooden barn boards and bales of hay as the city gets down to celebrating how the west was won. In the spirit of the times, normally law abiding citizens let loose and stagger out of hotel bars at 8 am, their bellies full of sausages and eggs swirling in a bath of vodka and OJ.

Last night, I left a restaurant on 17th Avenue as dusk was settling in. The streets were still alive with Stampede revelers as I walked to my car. In the distance, I saw a man stumbling towards me. He'd obviously had a few too many at some cowboy joint down the road. His hat was askew. His gait unsteady. As he navigated the sidewalk he smiled blearily at passers-by who deftly sidestepped his unsteady progress. Like everyone else, I gave him a wide-berth. Drunken wannabe cowboy's can be unpredictable.

As the man reached an intersection, the light turned red. He didn't hesitate. He stepped off the curb and kept on walking. Brakes squealed as drivers stopped to give him safe passage. A couple of horns blared. He laughed and smiled and kept moving. He made it safely to the other side, waved at the drivers who had stopped to let him pass and kept on going. People laughed and waved back.

Hey dude! It's Stampede. It's all in the spirit of the greatest outdoor show on earth.

It's a far cry from a scene I'd witnessed earlier that day when walking to a meeting in the East Village. A couple of blocks from the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre where I work, a man whose tattered clothing easily labeled him 'visibly homeless', jay-walked on a red light. Cars slammed on brakes. Horns honked. Expletives filled the air. One man called out from his car, "____ idiot. Get off the ____ road and get back in your ____ dumpster." He didn't wait for the man to reach the other side of the road. With a gunning of his engine, he swerved around him, and peeled away in his shiny black sports car.

Stampede is a great time to celebrate the spirit of our ancestors who toughed it out on the prairies to create this great City of boundless energy and opportunity. It's a great time to saddle up to the bar and get real close to your neighbours. It's all about community spirit. It's a spirit that's hard to ignore, especially if you work in the downtown core. Conversations around water-coolers extol the revelries of the night-before; that's if you happen to even make it in to work. On every street, line-ups form outside hastily erected tents that span parking lots. Under their white plastic domes, thirsty office workers, eager to partake in the opportunity to consume their body weight in alcohol, enjoy some good ole' fashioned western hospitality before hittin' the dusty trail homeward bound.

At the DI, where we are home to 1100 people a night, we struggle to keep clients safe from the excesses they encounter on the streets during Stampede. Visibly homeless individuals are easy prey for drunken party-goers who perceive them as fair game on the open range. A man peacefully sleeping on a grassy verge may find his sleep interrupted by a citizen who, proudly sporting a sparkling tin badge on his chest, feels obliged to give the homeless guy a kick in the ass, with a slurred, "Move along there pardner. You don't belong here."

Problem is, there aren't many places for a homeless Calgarian to belong. Stampede or not, there's no place under the sun to sleep it off without the risk of coming in contact with a passer-by filled with condemnation of the seemingly dead-end choices you've made that lead you to nowhere but what they deem to be the wrong side of the street.

In our city of high spirits and sky-rocketing prices, what's sauce for the goose, is not sauce for the gander. It's okay for drunken Stampede-goers to stumble along searching for the next opportunity to get into the spirit of the wild west. It's not okay for a visibly homeless man to stumble in his quest to find a safe place to rest until he can make it back home.

That's the way it goes in the land of opportunity. If you haven't got what it takes to survive on the streets of the wild west, you'd better not fall. Someone might kick you while you're down.

But hey! Don't let it get you down. It's Stampede. Yee Haw! Have a drink pardner.

Homelessness Sucks

2008-06-26T10:00:00.000-06:00

Olympic athlete, Dan O'Brien said, "The only way to overcome is to hang in."

For most of the clients at the DI, hanging in, hanging out, hanging on, is all they can do.

Direction is a place called confusion. Purpose an upside down world of despair. They don't know what they're going to do to fix the mess their lives are in, but wait. Wait for someone to ask, 'Hey buddy, Gotta fix?' And someone answers. Someone always does when you're livin' on the dark side of the street.

"You gotta find a new direction. Get a job." society tells them. Frigthened, they run away. Can't they see? This is the only direction they've ever known. Their lives have led them to this. How can they find a 'new' direction when they don't know how to change the direction they've always gone. Down. Down to the street. To street level. To outside looking in. To never havin', always takin'.

It. Us. Them.

They don't know if there's a place they can go where despair will let them off the hook of desperation. They don't know. And so they hang in, hang out, hang on.

One Sunday in May, 150 youth (16 to 28) from a faith-based organization came in to volunteer for the day. They sorted clothes, washed walls, cleaned up garbage, took a tour of the facility. They made a difference and still they wanted to know, what more can we do to end homelessness?

Now that's a complex question with many diverse answers. The simple answer is: we can't end a social ill without healing the causes of the illness.

The complex answer is: Depends upon for whom.

Is it the guy who has been chronically homeless for most of his adult life and who, at 55, collects bottles in order to earn enough money to buy a bottle of schlock that will last him, maybe a couple of hours, maybe the night? He used to have a place. One room. Hot plate. B&W TV. He was content living his life the way he wanted. But that place was sold. Turned into a multi-story glass and metal office tower. He had no place to go. And so, he comes here, to the shelter whenever he wants to get in from the cold or needs a meal.

Is it the woman who has turned to selling her body to support the addiction that's destroying her beauty, just as 'the trade' has destroyed her spirit? She had a home once too. It had a family in it. Husband. Two kids. The husband was good for nothing. Well, almost nothing. He threw a mean left hook. She only ever wanted the best for her kids. She couldn't give it to them. She didn't know how. Got rid of the husband. No big loss. Lost the kids. It almost destroyed her. And now, she's living on the abyss of despair, on a suicide mission with her life on the line. Maybe one day, she says, but not today. I'm not ready.

Is it that young guy with the mohawk? Nineteen years old. He went into foster care at 2. Ran away at 16 from the seventh foster home he'd lived in. He's survived the streets on his own by sheer wits. He uses marijuana. It's self-medication he says. Nobody can help me. I gotta take care of me. Despair is his watchword. Desperation his condition. We think he might deal in order to survive, but we've never caught him with drugs in the building. He volunteers. Helps out. Hangs on. We could bar him, but where would that leave him? No place to stay. Desperate. Who knows what he'd do.

Or what about that guy, over there. The one in the wheelchair. We put his name in for a new program designed to house the 'difficult to house'. They turned him down. 'He has a history of violence,' they said. Violence? He also has a history of mental illness. He cannot help himself. Look at him. He's 65. Feeble. Confined to a wheelchair. He's dying. He needs help and he needs a level of care we can't provide. 'They' never interviewed him. Never met with him. They read his file and turned him down. How do you end the homelessness he's living when the only agency with the capacity to do so won't accept him because a paper file says he doesn't fit their mandate?

Is it that woman? The tall one, died red hair, slim, open sores on her face. She's 66. A lifetime of abuse. Her last husband died and she was evicted. She had a place just awhile ago. Isolated. Lonely. Scared. She started drinking again. It got bad. Real bad. And now she's back. She hates it here but she hated it more when she was alone. She's got mental health issues. To live on her own she needs a multiple of supports. We don't have the resources to supply them and she too doesn't fit the mandate of any other agency in town.

We talk about ten year plans and our commitment to 'end homelessness'. We talk about the cost, the financial burden and the strain 'the homeless' place upon our society. But we don't talk about the people. The unique individuals whose lives have been decimated by abuse, divorce, family violence, addictions, mental health disorders and a host of other problems that deliver them into homelessness.

We talk about ending homelessness but we don't talk about ending the financial drive that underlies the tearing down of existing low-income housing stock, or the gentrification of our inner cities that is pushing the very people we say we want to help out to the edges of our communities.

Outside looking in. It is the plight of those who lack the economic, political and physical will to fight for themselves. Whose resources have been drained and whose energy has been expended fighting for that next fix, that next trick, that next inch of ground where they can make a stand if only for a moment, to catch their breath, sell a trick, buy a toke, hold on.

They're choosing this life, we say. Well, maybe once upon a time they made a choice that brought them down to street level. Too long looking at the dirt, the choice to get back up is too far gone on the road to desperation. Up is too far away. Up is an unknown direction. And so they fall down. Further and further from where they wanted to be, long ago when they had the choice to go somewhere else other than where they're at. Hanging in, hanging out, hanging onto a table at a homeless shelter where they feel a part of a community that cares about the fact they're alive, living a life nobody wants.

Homelessness sucks. Homelessness saps you of energy. It tears away the fabric of your life, exposing your underbelly to the grit and grime of an existence no one would wish upon even their worst enemy.

Homelessness kills. Spirit. Health. Will.

End it? Yes please. Pass me the needle. Give me the hit that will end the futility of all of this.

But please, save me your diatribe about how I gotta get out of this place. This place is the only place that has ever held me long enough to give me a chance to figure out where I'm at.

Broken Dreams and Hope

2008-06-05T09:57:00.002-06:00

He's in his thirties. Spent a vast majority of his adult life in 'the lock-up'. Four years out he knows where he never wants to go again. "But I don't know where I want to go now," he told me yesterday during a course I teach on Self-esteem that is part of the Career Training Initiative (CTI) here at the DI.

"Anywhere but here," piped up a good-looking younger man who was part of the course. "All I want is to get my tickets, get a job and get out of here."

The older man responded quickly. "But I like it here. I've been institutionalized most of my life. This place makes me feel safe. I've got a community here. People who understand me. I ain't got nothing out there." And he motioned with his left arm to the verdant green river valley and tree-covered hillside beyond the windows of the sixth floor CTI training room where we were meeting.

The man beside me joined in the conversation. In his twenties, he's been 'in and out' since 'juvie'. He's on parole, out since March. He too knows where he never, ever wants to go back.

"I need this place," he said. "I need to do something different 'cause getting angry, going to jail is not working for me anymore. And 'out there', I risk getting angry." In front of him sat a worn and tattered copy of Don Miguel Ruiz', The Four Agreements. Slid between the pages were his hand-written notes, proof of his laborious efforts to transcribe the agreements and their definitions. "No one ever taught me this stuff," he told the class, after reading his notes out loud. "My mom said she knew I was gonna be bad right from the moment I was born. I don't wanna be bad."

Stories of the street. Of lives in disarray. Lives on the mend. Stories of men for whom the only break they ever had was with the law. Bustin' it. Breakin' it. They end up broken down. Broken up. Living lives of broken promises. Broken families. Broken dreams. No where else to go. They end up here. At a homeless shelter. Struggling to put back together something they'd never had before. Their lives free of the past.

The perspectives were vast. Cultural differences diverse. Ethiopia, South Africa. The former Czech Republic. Belarus. 'Hardened criminals'. Youth.

Vast differences. Similar stories. Gotta get going. Gotta get real. Gotta quit what I'm doing and find something better. Gotta find a way out of this place to somewhere else.

"I don't dream," said one man. "Dreamers are fools. God doesn't like dreamers."

"I gotta dream," said another. "If I don't got dreams, I may as well just pack it in right here."

"Yeah," chimed in another. "Dreams are free. No one ever put you in jail for dreaming."

Sometimes the dream is as simple as never having to panhandle again.

"I've done it a few times," said the man who'd spent a lot of time doing time. "I hate it. It's embarrassing."

He looked at me. Smiled. His face lit up. Boyish. A child with no front teeth, the gap where once his used to be was wide.

"It would have been easier to hold someone at knife point and tell them to give me the money. But I don't wanna do that. That way's a ticket back to jail."

The exigencies of the street. Pan-handling to stay out of jail. Pan-handling for bus fare because the employer refused you the job. Worn out shoes. Worn down spirit.

At the end of the class I asked each participant to write themselves a letter. "Make it a love letter," I told them. "Make it something that will support you. Give you strength when you're down. Write what you'd like to hear from your mom, or dad, grandmother that maybe you've never ever heard."

They hesitated. Joked. Laughed. Love letter? To myself? Never wrote one to no girl. Why would I write one to myself?

"Because you deserve it," I said. "Because you need to put on paper the words you need to hear about how amazing you are, not the ones your mind keeps repeating about what a loser you've become."

Still they hesitated. Slowly, one by one, they began to write.

The quiet in the room was profound. Concentration. Fear. Hope.

"Can I read my letter to the group?" asked the man who was on parole.

"That is your choice," I told him. "Do you want to?"

"Yes," he replied.

I asked the group, "Are you willing to listen with open hearts and minds?"

Everyone nodded their heads.

The man smiled. Haltingly he began to read. I felt tears pricking at the back of my eyes. My heart soften.

I watched his face as he read. Focused. His brow furrowed. One finger following the words he'd written on the page.

I could see him swallow. Clench his teeth and keep on reading.

Words he needs to hear. A story he wants to tell. A dream he wants to live.

We were silent when he finished. Silent. And in awe.

Real lives finding themselves in a place where no one ever wants to end up. Homeless. Lost. Frightened. Alone.

Real lives coming together to find a common goal of moving on. Moving forward. Moving out in spite of the fear. Out from a place where courage is born. Where dreams unfold.

At Street Level

2008-05-15T15:00:00.000-06:00

Last night I was part of Voices from the Street 2008. A group of social service agencies and volunteers conducting a homeless street count in Calgary on the night of May 14th. Over the course of two to three hours, one hundred volunteers wandered the city streets identifying how many people were without shelter, sleeping rough. Each group had a specific geographic area to walk, a clipboard with census sheet to mark off how many people were 'visibly homeless' and a shopping bag full of 'goodies' to give away to those willing to engage in conversation.

The purpose of the count is to identify trends -- the count has been conducted by the City every second year since 1992. Homelessness has risen by 32% every two years since the first count. Is that continuing? Are more people sleeping out? Are more people drifting into homelessness? The count helps project forward what facilities will be needed. And, helps identify what's working. What's not? Where are the gaps?

Moments from last night stand out in my memory like dewdrops in morning sunlight. Crystal clear. A perfect prism encapsulating the moment, magnifying all that is wrong, all that is sad about homelessness.

It took awhile for my group of four to find our feet on the street. We weren't sure how to approach someone. How to engage in conversation. The first man we enumerated walked past us. "Do you think he's homeless?" a team member asked. "Hmmmm. Not sure." We backtracked and called out to him. "Excuse me. We're doing a street count. Would you be willing to answer a few questions?"

The man replied, his demeanor open, the tone of his voice pleasant. "Sure." He swayed slightly on his feet. A tattered black leather jacket hung off one arm. A backpack swung from one shoulder.

"Do you have a place to sleep tonight?"

"Me? Hell no." He laughed. "I like to rough it. Expose myself to the stars."

"Do you ever use the shelters?"

"Not any more," he said. "I'm barred." He paused. Looked at us. Looked down at the ground. "I'm not a bad person," he pushed a rock away with the toe of his workboot. "I drink. That doesn't make me a bad person."

We gave him a couple of cigarettes. A bag of cheesies. A bottle of water. "Thanks for taking the time to chat with us," we said as we parted and walked in opposite directions.

We didn't ask everyone. Two guys walked by, their open necked shirts clean and crisp, a cell phone in one hand. No cigarette. No can of beer tucked into a pocket. We didn't stop them. Another man walked towards us, backpack, weary posture, unshaven face. We stopped and spoke to him.

We were making judgments with every step we took. Every person we met.

Some of the folks were easy to identify. Sleeping in the park. Sitting on a park bench, shopping cart parked beside them. A bottle of booze tucked into their bag but still visible. Shaggy hair. Shaggy beard. Scruffy clothes. Dirty hands. Torn pants. Scuffed up shoes. Those people were easy to identify. When we approached them they were always friendly. Always open about talking about their lives -- albeit determining fact from fiction was not so simple. Alcohol was generally the common ingredient in the mix of their perspectives.

At one point, we walked across a darkened parking lot and found three men sitting on the ground in a far corner. A case of beer sat beside them. Two boxes of donuts were open on the ground. In front of them, plugged into a block heater outlet, a small colour TV blared the news. We walked up, said hi. They welcomed us graciously. "Want a donut? The guy at the donut shop always gives them to us at 10pm. He's great."

We told them why we were there. I recognized two of them from the Drop-In. They didn't recognize me.

They willingly answered our questions. Age. How long in the city? How long on the street? Where did they come from before here? Did they have a job? Did they ever use the shelter system? If not, why not?

They laughed and joked amongst each other. They regaled us with stories of their adventures (and misadventures). Stories of sneaking into boarded up buildings to stay out of the cold winter winds. Of hide-aways with cable TV because the building management forgot to turn it off when they'd turned everyone out in anticipation of tearing the building down. Of cops swarming them in another parking lot where they'd set up their nightly camp because the building owners were afraid of their presence in the dark. They swore us to secrecy as they told us about one building manager and his inability to keep them out of his buildings.

I wondered why they asked us to keep their secret. And why they immediately trusted us when we quickly replied, "Of course." A vulnerability of the street? Misplaced trust. Trust given too quickly. A history of trusting the untrustworthy. An assumption of co-conspiracy? Assumed community?

We talked to teen prostitutes. Runaway teens. Elderly men with years and years of street life pounded into their worn out shoes. Pockets dragging with the weight of hands buried deep within their folds, holding off the cold, clutching a bottle for support.

We put a granola bar in front of a woman lying on the grass in a park. She looked pregnant. Sound asleep? Passed out? A man walked up and told us, "She's okay. Just napping. She'll wake up in a bit and move on."

We talked to teens hanging out. Teens hanging on to some vestige of humanity as they politely thanked us for the chocolate bars and water bottles we handed out.

We didn't talk to one man wheeling a spiffy looking bike down a quiet avenue. His companion stopped to chat with us but he kept moving. Kept putting distance between him and us.

Them and us.

Two sides of the street.

One of the last men we talked to stood in front of us as we waited at a red light to cross the street. I wasn't sure about talking to him. He stood aggressively. His arms lifting up from his sides as if he thought he might be able to fly away. It was late. 11pm. Dark.

One member of the team tried to open a conversation with him. "Hi, we're doing a street count. Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

The expletives flew fast and furious. He aggressively pushed his body towards us. I wanted to calm his anger. He seemed stoned. Or perhaps he had a mental disability. I offered him a cigarette. He thought I meant a smoke of something more potent. I backed away. We all backed away. We crossed the street. Kept walking away, his expletives colouring the air behind us.

As we worked our way back to our starting point, we came upon the first man we'd encountered earlier that evening. He was sitting on the sidewalk at the back of a gas station. Beside him, an older gentlemen sat in a wheelchair.

"Hey," the man said. "I know you. I met you before."

We smiled and reminded him of our encounter earlier.

"I remember!" I didn’t know if he was surprised he remembered, surprised to see us again, or surprised we remembered him.

He was visibly more inebriated than before. He had trouble holding himself upright and unlike previously where his conversation was lucid and polite, his words were laced with expletives. He wasn't threatening. Just colourful. Between the expletives he kept insisting, "I'm not a bad person."

I asked the gentleman in the wheelchair if he had a place to sleep that night. "Oh yeah," he replied. "I'm going there." And he pointed down the street to a building two blocks away where those under the influence can spend the night.

The other man interjected. "I'm going to push him there in a little while." He added his signature phrase. "I'm not a bad person." And then promised. "I'll be careful with him." He pointed to his buddy. "I'm not a bad person. He's my friend. I take good care of him."

The language of the street. I'm not a bad person. He's my friend. I take good care of him.

The street with a language of its own. Colourful. Filled with expletives. Filled with the human condition pouring out in words of denial. Words of fear. Of pain. Of defiance. Of camaraderie. Of shared experienced. Common ground.

The young woman standing on a corner, looking for business. "I'm not a crackhead," she told us when we asked if she had a place to sleep that night. "I got my own place. I quit doing that shit six months ago. I can take care of myself."

The young couple, tattoos and spiky hair, demographic markers on the dark side of the street. "We don't use no shelter. We can take care of ourselves."

Taking care. Good care. Any care on the street is not easy.

Being careful is not part of street life.

Exposed. Vulnerable. Naked to the eyes of passers-by. Easily identifiable. Easily targeted. Easily counted by census takers on a warm night in May.

We didn't ask everyone if they had a place to sleep last night. Only those who looked like they didn't. They were easy to identify.

And when we parted we wished them well with a concerned admonishment to, 'be safe'.

As darkness descends, the street can turn mean. You gotta be safe.

What Is Poverty by Jo Goodwin Parker

2008-05-07T15:12:00.000-06:00

The following speech "What is Poverty" by Jo Goodwin Parker, was required reading in a class Tim G., Afternoon Building Supervisor, took while in University. It's a powerful, disturbing commentary on the horrendous cost of poverty to the human spirit.

What is Poverty. by Jo Goodwin Parker

You ask me what is poverty? Listen to me. Here I am, dirty, smelly, and with no "proper" underwear on and with the stench of my rotting teeth near you. I will tell you. Listen to me. Listen without pity. I cannot use your pity. Listen with understanding. Put yourself in my dirty, worn out, ill-fitting shoes, and hear me.

Poverty is getting up every morning from a dirt- and illness-stained mattress. The sheets have long since been used for diapers. Poverty is living in a smell that never leaves. This is a smell of urine, sour milk, and spoiling food sometimes joined with the strong smell of long-cooked onions. Onions are cheap. If you have smelled this smell, you did not know how it came. It is the smell of the outdoor privy. It is the smell of young children who cannot walk the long dark way in the night. It is the smell of the mattresses where years of "accidents" have happened. It is the smell of the milk which has gone sour because the refrigerator long has not worked, and it costs money to get it fixed. It is the smell of rotting garbage. I could bury it, but where is the shovel? Shovels cost money.

Poverty is being tired. I have always been tired. They told me at the hospital when the last baby came that I had chronic anemia caused from poor diet, a bad case of worms, and that I needed a corrective operation. I listened politely - the poor are always polite. The poor always listen. They don't say that there is no money for iron pills, or better food, or worm medicine. The idea of an operation is frightening and costs so much that, if I had dared, I would have laughed. Who takes care of my children? Recovery from an operation takes a long time. I have three children. When I left them with "Granny" the last time I had a job, I came home to find the baby covered with fly specks, and a diaper that had not been changed since I left. When the dried diaper came off, bits of my baby's flesh came with it. My other child was playing with a sharp bit of broken glass, and my oldest was playing alone at the edge of a lake. I made twenty-two dollars a week, and a good nursery school costs twenty dollars a week for three children. I quit my job.

Poverty is dirt. You can say in your clean clothes coming from your clean house, "Anybody can be clean." Let me explain about housekeeping with no money. For breakfast I give my children grits with no oleo or cornbread without eggs and oleo. This does not use up many dishes. What dishes there are, I wash in cold water and with no soap. Even the cheapest soap has to be saved for the baby's diapers. Look at my hands, so cracked and red. Once I saved for two months to buy a jar of Vaseline for my hands and the baby's diaper rash. When I had saved enough, I went to buy it and the price had gone up two cents. The baby and I suffered on. I have to decide every day if I can bear to put my cracked sore hands into the cold water and strong soap. But you ask, why not hot water? Fuel costs money. If you have a wood fire it costs money. If you burn electricity, it costs money. Hot water is a luxury. I do not have luxuries. I know you will be surprised when I tell you how young I am. I look so much older. My back has been bent over the wash tubs every day for so long, I cannot remember when I ever did anything else. Every night I wash every stitch my school age child has on and just hope her clothes will be dry by morning.

Poverty is staying up all night on' cold nights to watch the fire knowing one spark on the newspaper covering the walls means your sleeping child dies in flames. In summer poverty is watching gnats and flies devour your baby's tears when he cries. The screens are torn and you pay so little rent you know they will never be fixed. Poverty means insects in your food, in your nose, in your eyes, and crawling over you when you sleep. Poverty is hoping it never rains because diapers won't dry when it rains and soon you are using newspapers. Poverty is seeing your children forever with runny noses. Paper handkerchiefs cost money and all your rags you need for other things. Even more costly are antihistamines. Poverty is cooking without food and cleaning without soap.

Poverty is asking for help. Have you ever had to ask for help, knowing your children will suffer unless you get it? Think about asking for a loan from a relative, if this is the only way you can imagine asking for help. I will tell you how it feels. You find out where the office is that you are supposed to visit. You circle that block four or five times. Thinking of your children, you go in. Everyone is very busy. Finally, someone comes out and you tell her that you need help. That never is the person you need to see. You go see another person, and after spilling the whole shame of your poverty all over the desk between you, you find that this isn't the right office after all-you must repeat the whole process, and it never is any easier at the next place.

You have asked for help, and after all it has a cost. You are again told to wait. You are told why, but you don't really hear because of the red cloud of shame and the rising cloud of despair.

Poverty is remembering. It is remembering quitting school in junior high because "nice" children had been so cruel about my clothes and my smell. The attendance officer came. My mother told him I was pregnant. I wasn't, but she thought that I could get a job and help out. I had jobs off and on, but never long enough to learn anything. Mostly I remember being married. I was so young then. I am still young. For a time, we had all the things you have. There was a little house in another town, with hot water and everything. Then my husband lost his job. There was unemployment insurance for a while and what few jobs I could get. Soon, all our nice things were repossessed and we moved back here. I was pregnant then. This house didn't look so bad when we first moved in. Every week it gets worse. Nothing is ever fixed. We now had no money. There were a few odd jobs for my husband, but everything went for food then, as it does now. I don't know how we lived through three years and three babies, but we did. I'll tell you something, after the last baby I destroyed my marriage. It had been a good one, but could you keep on bringing children in this dirt? Did you ever think how much it costs for any kind of birth control? I knew my husband was leaving the day he left, but there were no goodbye between us. I hope he has been able to climb out of this mess somewhere. He never could hope with us to drag him down.

That's when I asked for help. When I got it, you know how much it was? It was, and is, seventy-eight dollars a month for the four of us; that is all I ever can get. Now you know why there is no soap, no needles and thread, no hot water, no aspirin, no worm medicine, no hand cream, no shampoo. None of these things forever and ever and ever. So that you can see clearly, I pay twenty dollars a month rent, and most of the rest goes for food. For grits and cornmeal, and rice and milk and beans. I try my best to use only the minimum electricity. If I use more, there is that much less for food.

Poverty is looking into a black future. Your children won't play with my boys. They will turn to other boys who steal to get what they want. I can already see them behind the bars of their prison instead of behind the bars of my poverty. Or they will turn to the freedom of alcohol or drugs, and find themselves enslaved. And my daughter? At best, there is for her a life like mine.

But you say to me, there are schools. Yes, there are schools. My children have no extra books, no magazines, no extra pencils, or crayons, or paper and most important of all, they do not have health. They have worms, they have infections, they have pink-eye all summer. They do not sleep well on the floor, or with me in my one bed. They do not suffer from hunger, my seventy-eight dollars keeps us alive, but they do suffer from malnutrition. Oh yes, I do remember what I was taught about health in school. It doesn't do much good.

In some places there is a surplus commodities program. Not here. The country said it cost too much. There is a school lunch program. But I have two children who will already be damaged by the time they get to school.

But, you say to me, there are health clinics. Yes, there are health clinics and they are in the towns. I live out here eight miles from town. I can walk that far (even if it is sixteen miles both ways), but can my little children? My neighbor will take me when he goes; but he expects to get paid, one way or another. I bet you know my neighbor. He is that large man who spends his time at the gas station, the barbershop, and the corner store complaining about the government spending money on the immoral mothers of illegitimate children.

Poverty is an acid that drips on pride until all pride is worn away. Poverty is a chisel that chips on honor until honor is worn away. Some of you say that you would do something in my situation, and maybe you would, for the first week or the first month, but for year after year after year?

Even the poor can dream. A dream of a time when there is money. Money for the right kinds of food, for worm medicine, for iron pills, for toothbrushes, for hand cream, for a hammer and nails and a bit of screening, for a shovel, for a bit of paint, for some sheeting, for needles and thread. Money to pay in money for a trip to town. And, oh, money for hot water and money for soap. A dream of when asking for help does not eat away the last bit of pride. When the office you visit is as nice as the offices of other governmental agencies, when there are enough workers to help you quickly, when workers do not quit in defeat and despair. When you have to tell your story to only one person, and that person can send you for other help and you don't have to prove your poverty over and over and over again.

I have come out of my despair to tell you this. Remember I did not come from another place or another time. Others like me are all around you. Look at us with an angry heart, anger that will help

As Long As Hope Lives

2008-05-06T09:45:00.000-06:00

It is just a piece of paper hanging on the wall of an office at the Drop-In. A white piece of paper with a picture of a man standing between two teenagers, his arms around their shoulders. I can see their smiles but the eyes of the teenage girls are blacked out. The man's whole face is visible. He's wearing a cowboy hat. Black shirt. Black jeans. He's got a Johnny Cash kind of look, a cocky stance as he smiles, obviously happy to be between his daughters. I know he's their father. The message on the paper tells me. "Has anyone seen this man?" And then, beneath it, "Dad, please call home. We love you."

A simple, heartfelt message. A pain too great to fathom.

It is a story often repeated at the Drop-In and other homeless shelters across the country. Mother's call in looking for their sons. Daughters look for their mothers. Brothers come in search of their twin, wives search for 'their better halves'.

It is a story that reminds me of what I once did to my daughters. Disappeared. Vanished. Left with no forwarding address.

Hard to imagine. But true.

I look back on that woman who believed so completely that she had no value, no meaning in anyone else's life but the abuse and terror she was enduring. I feel the pain of those lost souls trying to escape the loving arms reaching out to them, wanting to tell them a simple truth, We love you. And I know the sorrow of those reaching out in fear they've lost the one they love forever.

It's hard to hear someone loves you when you believe you are completely unworthy. The mind cries out. You must escape from the burden of their love, escape from the truth of the self-hatred burning inside for all that you are, all you've become. You must run and hide.

It was a relationship that brought me down. A man who believed it was his right to control me, to take over my life because he could. And I bought into his lies. Let go of the sacred trust my daughters depended upon to give their lives meaning. At some point in that journey through hell, the responsibility of their love became too great, too hot to touch. The truth of what I'd done became too great a burden to carry. In my fall from grace I had to deny the one thing I craved, the one thing that gave my life meaning-- to be connected through the circle of love to the one's I loved. Lost on the road of life, I told myself I didn't deserve their love. I was not worthy.

And so, I ran away. Disappeared. Vanished.

I was blessed. I was found before I was erased from this planet. I was found before all I left behind was the painful memory of my journey through hell, a bitter reminder for those who loved me to grapple with, make sense of, understand. In my 'finding' I found the gift of healing, of forgiveness, of love.

At the Drop-In, sometimes the lost are not found. They pass by and pass away, their lives an untold story never to unfold. Like the young man a volunteer told me about on Saturday. Her husband had befriended him. He was a schizophrenic. Twenty-eight years old. He used to sit on the sidewalk outside the man's office building and panhandle. Her husband would give him coins, buy him coffee and a muffin, sometimes take him for lunch. And then one day, he disappeared.

The husband wondered where he'd gone and then continued on with his life. Until a week after his disappearance when the police appeared. The young man had died. An overdose. His story ended. We found your business card amongst his belongings, they told him. You're the only contact name we have. Can you help us connect with his family? The husband knew of a brother, which led to a parent. Thanks for letting us know, they said. They didn't come for the funeral. The volunteer and the husband were the only one's there. Two strangers saying a prayer over a man whose life had lost all connection to this world. At least the family knows what happened to him, the husband said. At least they won't have to keep worrying about him.

Sometimes, the lost cannot be found again. Sometimes, there's no one looking for them.

I hope and pray those two daughters find some sign of their father. I pray one day he will find himself on the road of living in love and joy reconnected to the ones he loves.

Until that time, we must hold open the doors that lead the way off the street so those who are lost can find their way home again. We must keep hope alive for those who are searching for the one's they love so that they do not give up hope that all will be lost with the passing away of the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews and nieces who are missing.

In honour of Augie. Written by: Roger G.

2008-05-02T15:01:00.002-06:00

While putting my laundry in the washer this morning, I thought back to the beautiful memorial service I attended yesterday for Augie Simonaitis. Clients and staff and friends came together to fill the MultiPurpose Room on the 6th floor; staff I've worked with, some who have moved on to new ventures, and others I only know by name. There were clients whom I have watched as they've ridden roller-coasters of success and failure, a client who has found contentment with the slow road of building on small triumphs rather than chasing after the dramatic life changes that have eluded him, a client whom I've watched waste away, and another who just keeps plodding along, seemingly in his own little world most of the time. We were all there to pay our respect to Augie, and it felt very much like a family.

I knew Augie for the six years I've worked at the Drop-In. For three of those years I was one of the front line workers greeting clients, donators, EMS and CPS at the main doors, while he was in "the fishbowl", the Security office behind us. I can remember one night when Augie was being a bit bossy for my liking, calling out his
opinion of every little thing we were doing as we tried to keep the peace out in the lobby. I finally went to his window and said to him, "Augie, we just got a phone call from Environment Canada. They say that the hot air from your mouth is affecting weather systems all across the Prairies, and they say they'll give you a silver-framed barometer to hang on your wall if you'll shut up." To my surprise, he did. For a little while.

When I was first offered a supervisor's position, my response was "Who, me? a supervisor? Are you kidding?" And it took me about a year before I felt comfortable and competent in that role. But Augie had confidence in me; he would tell me that he believed I was good at my job and I could handle whatever came up. I needed those words, especially from people who knew where I had come from, what I was good at, and what I wasn't.

Due to the foresight and care of my own supervisor Linda, who had heard from nurse James that Augie might not make it through the night, my work was done by others last Tuesday, while it came to me to be with him when he died. I phoned Dr. Hurley just after 1:00 a.m., so she could come to the apartment, phone the funeral home, and sit with Augie and I while we waited for them to come pick him up. But until the service yesterday, I never knew that Augie had been a client. I had known nothing of his life of hard struggle with self-destructive habits. And I never guessed at the many lives that he had touched so deeply. The memorial gave us a chance to briefly sketch out for each other a few outlines of who this man was and how we had each been touched. Appropriately, we were met a the door with a beautiful pencil drawing of Augie done by Jeff, one of our new Security staff, who had the chance to meet Augie before he left us.

I am grateful towards Andrew Joo, John Rowland, Dermot Baldwin, and whoever else organized this memorial for Augie so that we may have a chance to gather together and tell each other stories about our friend. Is this not a fine, fine way for us to accept death as part of life? to process our loss and to give thanks for the flawed,
imperfect, fully human lifegiver who has passed on?

For us, life goes on; in our booming city there are a thousand ways to get the short end of the stick and various addictions to shorten the stick further still, so there are still clients to feed and house at the Drop-In. There are mouths to feed at home. I'm on my days off, and my laundry is now ready to go out on the clothesline.

Roger G. continues to work nights for the Drop-In, as he always has.

In celebration of a heartfelt man.

2008-05-02T07:28:00.002-06:00

Her cheeks are caved in where once her teeth held the shape of her face in place. Her dark eyes dart around the room as if constantly searching for an exit or perhaps she's just making sure she's ready to make a quick exit in case someone comes to tell her she has to leave, this isn't where she belongs. The pinkish white flesh of her scalp shows through between the strands of her salt and pepper hair which flies about her face like feathery whiskers on a cat. She's tall. Thin. Almost emaciated. She never wears shoes, her stockinged feet shuffle as she walks.

She isn't comfortable sitting amidst the black suits and dresses. And yet, she's come. She's here. She must pay respects to the man who gave her a gift no one else ever had.

She cannot get up to speak at the podium, "Talking in front of people makes me nervous," she tells the MC. She sits in her seat and holds a conversation with him as if there's no one else there. We strain to listen, to hear her. What she has to say is important.

"I came in one day, stoned, like I always was," she says, her eyes never leaving the MC's. "I'm an addict," she says by way of explanation.

Her entire body is in motion where she sits on the edge of her chair, leaning into the conversation. She nods, her arm lifts up, she straightens her pointer finger and jabs the air. "He saw me stumbling and came out from behind the glass window towards me. I could barely stand. I was crying. He came over, put his arm around me, held me up and said, 'It's okay. It's okay. You've got a good heart."

She stops and swallows. "He said that to me. 'You've got a good heart.'" She shakes her head. "Nobody's ever said that to me before. He did. And I'll never forget it. You've got a good heart."

She sits back in her chair, her thin lips pulled back from her reddened gums in a smile as innocent as a baby's. She nods her head, mutters to herself and rocks her body. "I have a good heart," she whispers.

He died last Wednesday. This man who could see the good heart within each of us. His care giver had turned away to make a cup of tea and in those brief moments, he slipped from his earthly form to another plane.

It is how he lived his life. On his terms.

It is how we are celebrating his passing. Nothing fancy. No formal service. Just a roomful of people gathered to celebrate the life of a man whose past is a blur, but whose impact in the ten years many had known him was profound.

I'd only known him two years. Since coming to work at the Drop-In. I knew him as a security guard. Committed to giving his best. To ensuring the rules were followed. Procedures maintained so that everyone was as safe as possible in an environment where chaos is the order of the day. He always had a kind word. A gentle smile. An outreached arm lengthened by his pointer finger jabbing the air to get your attention or to bring your attention to a point that he believed must be made.

He'd once been a client. A man, like so many others, struggling to let go of a past that haunted his waking moments as he slipped into a bottle that gave him courage to face the day. It was a past that slithered through his nights on velvety whispers that would not let him forget where he'd been and what he'd done.

But he wanted to. Forget that is. Forget what he'd done. Forget where he'd been. Forget the past so he could be free to live today for all he was worth.

And he did. Let go. But he couldn't forget. He didn't really want to. It was his legacy, and his way out. He couldn't forget it, but he could at least forgive himself and the past that had caused such trouble in his life.

At the shelter he found the road out of the past to living each day with dignity. He found the path away from the darkness of the addiction that gave him false courage into the sobriety that gave his life meaning.

I remember him making his rounds of the building. He was a tall man. Thin. Handsome in a Clint Eastwood kind of way. He wore his black vest with the gold lettering with pride. His footsteps were measured. Sure. As he walked and tested doors, he held his clipboard in one arm, carefully checking off that locks were secured and everything was as it should be.

The routine gave him meaning. It made me feel safe where ever I was in the building.

If it was after hours and no one else was around he'd sit for a moment in the blue chair across from my desk and chat. Sometimes, he'd tell me a story of another time. He wanted to share what he'd learned through living life on the wrong side of the street he told me. He wanted to use his story to give hope and strength to others who were lost on the road of life like he once was.

"I gotta give back to give meaning to my life today," he said.

He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, I listened.

"I once tried to go back," he told me. "I thought it was time I reconnected to my past. I went east. Checked out some of my family. It didn't work out. Too much water under the bridge. So I came back. Here. Where I belong." He paused, lifted his right arm up, extended the pointer finger, nodded his head and said. "There's never any going back. You've always got to find where you belong right where you are."

Yesterday, dozens of people gathered together to celebrate the life of Augie. A gentle spirit. A wise soul. A heartfelt man.

A Tribute to Augie -- written by John R.

2008-04-30T15:46:00.000-06:00

He had a gruff voice.

He growled at my kids, but he did not scare them.

For me this says it all. Augie was one of those gruff men, with a soft interior, and my children knew this instinctively. No matter how much he barked, they were not scared. He barked at them telling them to be careful, and then gave them his chair so they could play with the cameras. For my children he was one of the most important people in the Drop-In. There were sad when they found out he had passed away. [Augie passed away, Wednesday, April 23, 2008]

He was a man who was both differential to me out of respect, yet willing to assert his authority by calling me on my cell phone to remind me that I had a master key signed out, and had not returned it.

He always told me that he did not want “Alan on his case”, but I always knew that really it was because working security in the Drop-In was a matter of pride for him. He did his job to the best of his ability.

For those of us who have known Augie for a long time, we know that there are two sides to the man. He was a gentle giant; there is no doubt about that. But neither is there any doubt about the past that he worked to put behind him. I would be curious to hear from someone who knew the old Augie what he was like. I can imagine, but I will never know.

Augie always expressed gratitude to the people who gave him a chance to live differently than his past, especially a woman from Edmonton who gave him a job in a hotel. He spoke to me several times about this women (who’s name unfortunately I do not know) and how by giving him a job when no one else would when he got out of jail, she turned his life around.

I think in a similar way, the staff at C110 who listened to Augie as he struggled to build a life in Calgary, and then when the Drop-In gave him a job doing security on the construction site that became this building also gave Augie something important to those of us who are human.

Redemption.

I may be wrong, because I never heard Augie say this, but I think working security for the Drop-In was Augie’s way of making up for all the other stuff in his life. His way of contributing something good to this world.

Augie, thank you for showing my children what a kind caring person you were. Thank you for letting them play in your chair.

Submitted by: John R.

His Guitar -- written by Nurse James

2008-04-24T14:27:00.000-06:00

Written by: Nurse James

It’s late April, at 8:45PM and our lobby is packed. It is snowing outside and cold. Minus 8, with windchill, minus 13. It’s very busy at the Drop-In.

*Jesse*is playing his new guitar in the lobby on the first floor. He received it as a gift for staying sober.

He plays a good rendition of Johnny B. Goode, and then goes onto some other Drop-In favorites; House of the Rising Sun, Rambling Man. He starts his version of Wild Horses and a young man joins in to sing with him. Soon the two are really in sync and as Jesse plays, his new partner belts out a five-minute rap song about street life and coming together and living at the D.I.

The crowd is right into the song, lots of people clapping and whooping along to the five minutes of singing and rapping.

Jesse swings his guitar over his head and with his arms bent backwards and his guitar inverted, begins playing the song faster and faster. His partner sings and raps faster and faster along with him.

As the song winds down and comes to a close, many in the lobby are on their feet cheering and clapping. The song ends, Jesse takes a bow and embraces his rapper friend. Everyone is now standing and giving the two a standing ovation, including the staff who are present.

It is a happy time. I am glad to see that so many can find so much joy and comfort in the short impromptu concert. Happy that so many are enjoying themselves despite the fact that they have next to nothing. Happy to see that so many people, from so many varied backgrounds and ethnic groups are standing together as one to cheer on one of their own.

They own so little, yet they have so much to live for. So many little opportunities, yet so much love, joy and attention they have to give to each other.

The laughter and smiles coming from the clients in the crowd is a stark contrast from the dreary attitudes that are usually present on a cold blustery day.

This is one reason I cite when people ask, “Why do you work at the homeless shelter?” Sometimes, they even ask me why I choose to come here instead of working elsewhere?

Because of the people I tell them.

The people here are like nowhere else. The people here are so close, and so caring. They have so much fun with so few items and possessions.

The short but energetic jam session had me seeing hope, not despair, laughter, not sadness, and something that a lot of people in this world crave and need the most, a sense of family and belonging.

*Not his real name*

Written by: Nurse James

Hope for a better life

2008-04-18T14:38:00.000-06:00

He was 53 the first time he tried crack. After a lifetime of sobriety, he still wonders today what made him do, what in retrospective, turned out to be a really bad idea. But, on that night, ten years ago, when a buddy came over to watch a movie and offered him a snort on his crack pipe, it seemed like not too bad an idea.

“I figured I had a strong foundation that proved I was not the ‘addict’ type,” he told me when he dropped by my office for a visit. “I’d never even tried marijuana. I didn’t drink and I’d always preached to my kids about the dangers of drugs. I figured it wouldn’t hurt me to try it, just once.”

That ‘just once’ led to a ten-year odyssey through drug abuse. “When my buddy was leaving that night, I gave him some money and asked him to get me some more. There wasn’t any question that I wasn’t going to smoke it again. I was hooked,” he said, shaking his head in dismay.

It didn’t take long for John to sell his welding truck and pawn everything he owned. In need of money for his addiction, when his supplier offered him the opportunity to run a crack house in the northern city was he was living, he quickly jumped at the offer.

“I didn’t look like your average crack dealer,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “I was 53. Slimmer in those days.” He pauses to pat his belly. “I was forty pounds lighter when I was using,” he adds before continuing to tell me about his crackhouse days.

“I ran a tight ship,” he says. “We were in an upscale area of the city. The Mercedes and BMW’s of my clients didn’t raise any eyebrows when they parked in front of the apartment building for fifteen minutes and then left. We only operated from 7pm to 7am, not the 24 hour stuff of flophouses. People came in. They bought. They left. Whatever was left over when the sun came up, me and my partner would smoke. We’d do that for 3 or 4 days and then one of us would crash. And the cycle would continue. My suppliers thought I was great. I always paid them first and on time. Never caused them any trouble.”

And then, about four years after beginning his journey into hell, the apartment was raided. “I was lucky. I didn’t happen to be there at the time,” he says. “So, when my supplier came to me and asked me what I was going to do, I told him I was getting out. Because of my age, the poor state of my health due to my heavy use and my history with the gang that supplied the drugs, they let me go.”

John came to Calgary and began the slow process of recovery. “It wasn’t a straight path,” he adds. “I went into a treatment centre and in 2002, when I got out, I hooked up with a younger woman who was also getting out of treatment. That’s a recipe for disaster. Two addicts, fresh out of treatment with no place to go.”

It’s one of the aspects of recovery that John finds difficult to understand. “We put people who have nothing but the clothes on their backs through treatment and then we make no provision for what they’re going to do, or where they’re going to go once they’re out.”

John and his lady-friend ended up in a low income apartment building in the inner city. “We both had jobs but the building was rife with lots of opportunity to buy drugs. We were too fresh into recovery and couldn’t resist the lure of using together. But just on weekends,” he adds with a chuckle. “During the week, we’d both work to pay for the drugs we’d do on weekends. Eventually, weekends became longer and workdays became fewer and suddenly, we were both back out on the street.”

They ended up at the Drop-In, homeless and addicted once again. “The staff and counselors did so much for me,” he says. “Eventually, I made it up to the fifth floor into transitional housing and Amanda and Darce (Drop-In counselors) really got me thinking about my life and what I wanted to do and how I was going to get there.”

He knew he was getting too old for street life. “I was committed to change and knew that for it to really happen, I had to break the cycle of my drug usage. The first step for me was to get out of the downtown core completely so that I could get away from my old haunts and the people I used with.”

John found a new job and took shared accommodation in a suburb as he began the process of cleaning himself up again. A year later, with sobriety firmly in place in his mind and heart, John has his own apartment in the inner city and has worked continuously for the same employer.

“I don’t have a lot,” he says, “but I appreciate what I’ve got so much today because I know what I’ve got to lose if I fall off the wagon again.”

To keep himself on track, he volunteers his time with the Nursing and Social Work Programs at the U of Calgary and the SafeWorks nurses at the Drop-In.

“I love working with the students,” he says, a big smile on his face. “I take them around, show them the places I used to be and where addicts still hangout. It helps me stay sober because it reminds me of where I never want to be again.”

He admits he never gives an addict money. But, he will share his story about how he beat his own addiction. “I want them to know there is hope for a better life than being an addict.”

The Miracle

2008-03-25T15:15:00.001-06:00

Written by: Denise R.; Day Staff

For the past nine months, I have been helping a young drug addicted woman who has been a client at the Drop-In. She’s lived a hard life, working the streets to support her habit, coming into the Drop-In for respite after a drug run that could last from anywhere for five to seven days. She’d come in and sleep for two to three days, eat, catch her breath and then, the beast of her addiction would kick back in and she’d be off to feed it.

About eight months after she first appeared here, she realized she was pregnant. Her addiction, however, had a death grip on her and so, she continued to do her drug runs, returning once a week for food and shelter. Every time she came in, we watched in horror what she was doing to her body. We knew the affect her drugs were having on her unborn child. We knew the odds were against her and her baby. And we knew there was nothing we could do to intervene other than to continue to try to talk to her, somehow reach her to convince her to seek help. It was to no avail. She kept using and abusing as the life inside her continued to grow.

And then, on March 24, 2008, a miracle happened that changed my life. This young girl gave birth to a little angel. A perfectly healthy 5lb 12 oz. baby girl.

What a miracle.

Created in the hellhole of an addict’s life, a tiny, bright eyed, dark curly haired miracle came to life that day and brought with her the spark of hope, of humanity into the dark world into which she was conceived.

This tiny miracle came quietly into the world. She looked around with her bright shiny eyes, stared at the wonders of the world around her for at least three hours before falling into a contented sleep.

The mother wouldn’t hold her. She knew she’d never be able to give this miracle of life what she needed. She knew she couldn’t promise to kick her habit for the sake of this child’s life. And so, she did the bravest thing she could do and made the most difficult choice she could make. She gave her baby up. To ensure her baby has the life she cannot give her, this young mother gave her the one thing she had to give, the gift of life.

It is sad when the beast of an addiction is greater than a mother’s love but that’s the reality of addiction. That is the horrible truth of what crack does to body, mind, and spirit.

For this miracle of birth, however, she is one in a million. She’s come through her mother’s womb devoid of any signs of the ravages of the drugs that possess her mother and keep her on the path of self-abuse, over and over again.

For me, the miracle of this baby’s birth reminds me that we are all miracles of life, gifts of the Creator. Life isn't fair but for this tiny baby, I pray she find a home where two parents will love and cherish her for all she's worth. She deserves it.

And for the mother, I pray one day she realizes, she's worth fighting for too.

Written by: Denise R.; Day Staff

We are All People

2008-03-19T13:07:00.001-06:00

Written by Nurse James

I was talking with a friend recently about my position as a Nurse at the Drop-In Centre.

The conversation went something like this.

Friend: Aren’t you scared to work there?

Me: No, should I be?

Friend: Yes! There are so many criminals and addicts there, so much crime happens there.

Me: Happens where?

Friend: At The Drop-In Centre.

Me: Inside the Drop-In Centre?

Friend: Well yeah, aren’t you scared for your safety and your life? So many drug dealers and prostitutes and criminals.

Me (again): Where, inside the Centre?

Friend: Yeah.

Me: Are we talking about the same place? The Drop-In Centre is filled with wonderful people. Lots of caring, compassionate and awesome people.

Friend: Yeah, but aren’t you afraid?

Me (again): Afraid of what? The People at the Centre are the same as you and I (I emphasized people for a reason). I work with, and am surrounded by people. Some make mistakes, some have addictions and some have money problems.

The person I was talking with did not seem to believe me. She was emphasizing the negative things of the city of Calgary in general. There are many negative things in this city, but the people who utilize the Drop-In Centre are not whom I would count as one of the negative things.

Calgary is a big city, with a big city comes big city crime. The ‘people’ at the Drop-In Centre are the same as you and I.

We have families, they have families. Some of them have money troubles; some of us have money issues. Some have problems with addictions. Whatever these addictions are, a lot of people in Calgary have them, some people just hide them better, we have family problems, and they have family problems.

Friend: Yeah, but aren’t you scared? (She could not let go of the fear that she thought I should be having while working inside the Drop-In Centre.)

Me: Scared of what, being hit by a plane falling out of the sky? Getting a bad grade on a homework assignment? Getting run over by a dump truck? No, I am not scared.

I went on to explain that I was more apprehensive about walking through on of the City’s shopping malls than I am being surrounded by a thousand people at Supper service in the Drop-In Centre. I am more concerned about being run off the road by some inattentive driver than I am of an incident while at work.

Most of the ‘people’ I emphasized again, are decent caring members of society, they are just having some problems right now.

How sad a state would this country be in if we refused to help a family member who was down on his luck? How sad a place this world would be to live in, if we refused to help a friend or a co-worker with clothing when they needed it? What a terrible position we would be in if we turned a brother or sister away who was fleeing an abusive relationship. What a horrible thing we would do if we turned our parents away when it is cold outside.

Bad things happen at the mall, road rage happens on Deerfoot Trail; fights happen in schoolyards, drunk drivers hurt people daily. Yet, somehow this all seems normal for some reason. So and so discovers that his or her child is smoking crack, or doing crystal meth. But, for some reason when I asked this friend and other friends if they were afraid of these things that happen in their homes, they said no. That this is going to happen in life.

We are all people; we all struggle with issues daily. Some issues are more prevalent than others. Some do not go away without help.

We are all people, we all have problems, whether we chose to admit it or not.

We are all people; we are all capable of love, and hate. We are all capable of doing despicable things, but we are also capable of doing great and wondrous things.

I choose to emphasize the positive, rather than the negative. I choose to do something. Instead of ignoring someone who has a problem, I choose to give them a hand however I can,

We are all people.

Written by Nurse James

The light and dark of saints and sinners

2008-03-02T03:57:00.001-07:00

Written by Roger G., Night Supervisor, 4th Floor

One night in February I learned, when I began my shift at 9:00 pm on one of the transitional floors at the Drop In, that one of my guys was drunk. We try to maintain it as a sober floor, so I tracked "Bill" down and confirmed the assessment of his inebriation. I told him he had to leave for the night. and he asked me if he could get something from his locker but I knew in his state that could be a long and noisy operation, so I said I would send it down to him later. I asked him to get one of the 1st floor staff to contact me on the radio once things had settled down there, which happened about 9:40. I learned later in the night that the request I heard by radio had been edited; what "Bill" actually said was "Could you ask Retard Roger to send my stuff down now?"

Coming to the 4th floor under the influence that night - breaking the contract he'd agreed to - was a Strike 3 for "Bill" and I could have closed his bed over it, sending him down to long line-ups and daily uncertainty about where he would be sleeping at night. His two earlier strikes, however, were for different issues; leaving a mess on his bed when he left one morning, for instance. I decided to give him another chance, but first I wanted him to do some homework around his drinking and the recovery process. I gave him this assignment, basically a goal-setting exercise, the next morning when he came up to access his locker before leaving for the day.

A couple of nights later "Bill" brought to me his completed homework, and we had a long talk. We talked about what situations and interpersonal conflicts are troublesome for him. We talked about art, for which he has discovered a talent and a passion for in recent years. Finally, with his permission I led him through a simple imagination exercise I learned a few years ago. Tools like this can begin to clear away some of the baggage we carry around that may have far more to do with the opinions and judgement of others, than who we ourselves are at the core. He appreciated that, and told me afterwards that it was beautiful imagery. We left the office, and I went off to do a head count of the clients on the floor. My co-worker Art told me later that after leaving the office, "Bill" approached him and said "I feel like I've just had a conversation with Gandhi!"

So now I'm both Retard Roger, and Gandhi. Cool. This is one of the most important truths I'd like to help uncover for the guys on my floor, that we are all a mixture of light and dark, saint and sinner, good and bad. If they see that in me and begin to see it more in themselves, then I have served them well. An awareness of our own wholeness can loosen the bonds by which we are held by shame in smallness and isolation, increasing our capacity for acceptance of ourselves, and for honesty with ourselves and others.

"Bill" has been spending a lot of time drawing since then. He also told me last week that his favorite way to fall asleep lately has been to spend a few minutes with the images we walked through that night. He spent another night drunk on the first floor last week, though I didn't have to send him off the 4th floor in the evening. Maybe he's taking a step back, after the steps forward he's taken in the past month. That seems appropriate. Our journey through life is far more like spinning across a dance floor than along a railroad track; two steps forward and one step back works just fine.

Written by Roger G., Night Supervisor, 4th Floor

Baby it's cold outside

2008-02-04T11:37:00.000-07:00

Written by: Nurse James, Drop-In staff

The recent cold snap in Calgary has left me with many emotions and some mixed feelings.

I have seen more than a few of our clients for frostbite, and some people that were not our clientele who were just looking to get in from the cold. I have learned a few things about the human spirit these past few days.

People are a lot more resilient than we are led to believe.

I talked with a client who had been outside in the cold shoveling snow for almost an hour. He only had on a thin pair of woolen mittens that looked like they were some years old. He came in to warm up his hands for a few hours, and then was going to go back out in the cold to make more money doing snow removal. I offered to get him some better gloves and he declined. His hands actually looked very frostbitten at first, and I thought he was in danger of losing at least one of his fingers. He was very humbled that I would take the time to offer my services, never mind make a few suggestions as to how he could stay safe. After about twenty minutes of me examining and talking with him, he chose to walk away, stating he would be all right. His fingers looked OK and I suggested he wait until the wind stop howling at least…he just gave me a sly grin and said he was fine.

I could not help feeling that I wanted to force him to stay indoors, but I have no authority to stop anyone in their right state of mind from doing what he or she wants.

This last week in total I have assessed and evaluated seven people for frostbite. Not too bad I guess when you have over a thousand people a day coming into our building.

Some were not so bad, two needing advanced medical attention. The not so bad ones just required them to stay indoors for the next day or so, else they would risk doing some real damage. They were the lucky ones, just needed a bit of warmth and maybe a warm shower and they would be OK, as long as they did not venture out in the Minus 32 temperature again.
With the wind chill we reached a staggering Minus 44 Celsius. Cold enough to freeze exposed skin in less than a minute. Scary stuff when you have a warm bed, a vehicle to let warm up before going to work. A cell phone in case your car breaks down. Terrifying when you don't.

Calgary's homeless citizens do not have these luxuries. Some have not even got what I would call safe clothing for this type of weather. [Ed. note: Our staff attempt to give clients appropriate clothing whenever we see someone venturing outside without warm apparel.] And we are only just beginning February. We have at least two more months of potential cold weather after February.

So what happens to our clients and those who seek us out? They continue to bottle pick in the alleys, or they continue to work the outside labor jobs that no one else is willing to do for the money that they are paid.

One man in particular touched my heart this past week. He was standing outside of a convenience store, he was opening and holding the door for the customers. When there was no-one going in or out, he was shoveling the walkway with a cheap plastic shovel. His pay? Occasionally a customer would give him the change that they received from their purchases. Nothing that special right? Except that it was minus 31. The wind was blowing 30km/h, the windchill in the minus 40's.

I did recognize him as one of the city's homeless citizens, but he was not one of our regular or steady clients. He was dressed in what I would call the absolute bare minimum for this type of weather. Thin gloves, holes in his jacket and thin pants.

Why did he impress me and at the same time depress me? His age was the major factor here. I felt so helpless and ashamed that I had a place to go home to. This guy standing out here freezing his fingers and toes for small tips was at the very least past 65 years old. No home, no family, no decent clothes and a cheap plastic shovel to make his tip money with.

Resilient, yet proud because he was earning his meager wage instead of begging.

I pray that we see no deaths from the cold, I pray that our clients do not lose fingers and toes this year, as so many have in the past. I pray that we find a better way for our seniors and addicted to find proper care and lodging.

I pray…

Written by: Nurse James, Drop-In staff

Les Marmitons: Good Eats. Great Treats. Gourmet Delights.

2008-01-29T09:57:00.000-07:00

Four years ago, when the Calgary chapter of les Marmitons wanted to make a difference at the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre, they chose the last Sunday in January as their preferred date to come and prepare a day’s worth of gourmet meals. Historically, it is considered to be the coldest day of the year, and this year was no exception. If not the coldest, January 27 was definitely one for the records.

While previous Sunday’s served up chilly weather, Sunday, January 27 delivered up bone-chilling frigid air spurred on by a biting north wind that cut through even the heaviest of clothing. It was a day to sit curled up in front of a fire sipping hot toddies and enjoying a bowl of tummy warming soup.

There was no roaring fire to warm-up clients at the Drop-In hearth, but the building was hot, and the kitchen a hotbed of feverish activity. Long before the crack of dawn, les Marmitons, a group of Calgary men from all walks of life who share a love of food and cooking, swept in amidst a flurry of pristine as snow white hats and aprons, and gleaming chopping knives and spinning whisks. Surrounded by giant mixing bowls and hundreds of pounds of potatoes, vegetables, butter, cream, garlic, salt, pepper and meats, they deftly conjured up a day of feasts fit for a king.

Economist, John Kenneth Galbraith said, “It is not necessary to advertise food to hungry people, fuel to cold people, or houses to the homeless.”

No one had to sell clients at the Drop-In to come and partake of Sunday’s meals. For most, eating at the Drop-In is a given. It is all they can afford. With the arrival of les Marmitons, however, eating became a gastronomic adventure that pleased the palates, warmed the hearts and filled bellies with exotic tastes that awakened imaginations to the possibilities of life beyond a homeless shelter.

“I used to go to fine restaurants. Before my addiction got the better of me,” said one client. “Tasting the food today reminds me of what is possible if I stay clean.”

There wasn’t an empty seat all day on the 2nd floor of the Drop-In, and, as another client said after sitting back from a satisfying lunch of Baked Chicken Breast with Mushroom Sauce, Tomato & Yello Pepper Wedges, Baby Vegetables and Rice Pilaf, “Why leave when there’s more of this to come? I appreciate the meals I get everyday, but this is amazing.”

Feeding 1200 to 1500 people is not for the faint of stomach. For Drop-In chef, Cindy, it is a daily undertaking. With a budget of seventy-five cents a person per meal, Cindy possesses an uncanny ability to juggle and organize, and a remarkable proficiency at some slight of hand that includes stretching a meal prepared for 800 to fill the bellies of two to three hundred more.

As Glenn Comm of les Marmitons pointed out, “We had a budget of $15,000 and 3 tons of food while Cindy has to try every day to feed the thousands with the equivalent of five loaves and two fishes. I am humbled by her dedication.”

On Sunday, Cindy opened up her kitchen to 40 amateur chefs and their families and friends. At times, there didn’t appear to be room to beat an egg, but nonetheless over the sixteen hours members of les Marmitons were on site, she kept the kitchen on track and organized amidst what appeared at times to be chaos. Between ensuring there were enough plates to feed the overflow, scrambling to clear tables, keep coffee flowing and meals cooking, Cindy worked with her team of volunteer chefs to ensure the day passed without any broken eggs thrown on the kitchen floor in frustration.

It was a day to remember and one clients and staff will continue to replay in their minds and on their tastebuds. As the applause at the end of each meal showed, les Marmitons served up a first-class day of culinary delight that pleased the palates of everyone in attendance.

Thank you to all the members of les Marmitons, their families and friends. You make a difference.

Thank you also to Coca-Cola for their donation of an extra 30 cases of pop – quenching the thirst is an integral part of feeding hungry souls.

Sysco Food Services of Calgary, Inc. also stepped up to the plate and upgraded the order for AA beef to AAA. Going a cut above gave clients' spirits a lift and made chewing easier for those for whom dental care is a luxury, not a way of life.

Also on the gratitude list is the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology (SAIT) who kindly made its John Ware Kitchen, one of the clubs two regular venues, available to club members to use for their Saturday preparations. Without their help, along with two instructors who participated in the Sunday event, les Marmitons would not have been able to deliver such superb culinary delights on Sunday.

Come Together

2008-01-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

Written by: Heather M. Night Staff, Intox

We stood in a circle like a grieving family and took turns washing our bodies with the smoke of his soul. One at a time we did the washing motion, some of us as tears rolled down our cheeks. My eyes glanced around watching the pain in their eyes as they folded their fingers together and let their hands hang in front of their bodies. I had never smudged before. We watched the shell as the grass slowly burned down to nothing. We stood in silence as we watched his soul climb to heaven...

My last memory of him was shared with the circle: We had a stack of gifts from the Christmas Wish List waiting to be claimed in the back room. I felt like Santa delivering some of them to the clients I knew who came in that night. I understand now why that big man in red is so jolly. The way their faces lit up and their lips parted cheek to cheek made me thankful for the giving people of Calgary.

He came in earlier than usual that night and slept in row 4 close to his friends. He awoke at 2am to get a drink of water and I jumped up to get his Christmas gifts from the back room. I brought them over to him as he sat on his mat. He smiled and said "thank you".

I perched on the table at the entrance of Intox where I sit sometimes in the middle of the night and scan the sleeping clients. I crossed my legs and watched him open his gifts. He unwrapped a winter hat and slowly placed it on his head. Ever so carefully, he took a winter scarf out of the box and slowly wrapped it around his neck. He treasured each gift as he opened them with such precision. He looked so happy, so content, so beautiful. The whole room was still.

His breath always smelled of Listerine and he was always smiling and the drinking slowly broke down his body and he died from hemorrhaging and we all really miss him.

This morning it felt like my greatest gift working at the Drop-In is just to love them. It felt like enough...and maybe it is.

Written by: Heather M, Night Staff, Intox

It’s a Miracle

2008-01-11T12:37:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to visit my mother in the hospital where she’s been since a fall on New Year’s Eve brought her down. As I walked along the corridor towards my mother's ward, I passed a small seating area where four people were sitting chatting, quite loudly, about the trouble with health care.

I haven't experienced the negative side of health care. My mother is receiving excellent care. The nurses are supportive. They're helpful and they continually go out of their way to ensure every patient feels comfortable, cared for and part of the going's on in the unit. It can't be easy. It's a lock down geriatric ward. Patients cannot leave without permission or someone in attendance. Some, as my mother says, 'are out of their minds' and difficult to work with. And yet, the staff remain professional, courteous and committed at all times.

I think it is a miracle that so many people want to work in health care. They are short-staffed, under-budgeted, under-resourced and under constant criticism from 'all of us'. In spite of that, they remain committed to delivering superior service to every person who walks through the door.

The same can be true of most aspects of any service provider in the public sector, such as the Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre. We continually struggle to manage increased demand with declining resources under the scrutiny of many who believe we are a contributor to the problem, not a solution. Yet, a review of our forty-seven year history demonstrates we have successfully helped thousands of individuals end homelessness, one person at a time.

Since our inception in 1961, we have operated under a mandate of continuous innovation to ensure the services we deliver meet the needs of our clients while addressing the many systemic issues that drive individuals into homelessness. Where once we offered only a bowl of soup and a meal, we evolved our services to include night shelter and then 24 hour service. We were the first agency in the city to incorporate transitional housing into its programs and with Bridgeland Manor, we offer the only community-based supported living facility in Canada for homeless seniors.

At the Drop-In, we recognize that homelessness is not just a physical condition. To ensure we help our clients find constructive solutions to the issues that need to be addressed for homelessness to end in their lives, we provide counseling, job-readiness training programs, legal assistance, and health care services in-house. Recently, in recognition of our constant priority of helping clients address their health, we hired a doctor to assist our in-house nurse with client care.

In discussing health care, we seldom talk about the stories of lives saved. We seldom hear about families who have remained intact because of the miraculous work of the individuals providing them service through whose knowledge, skill, and access to the right resources, have played an instrumental role in healing someone's life.

On New Year’s Day, when my eldest daughter's friend was critically injured by a car, the prognosis was not good. Today, he's out of ICU and is awaiting a bed outside the Trauma Unit where he has spent the past few days. He's walking on crutches, and as his girlfriend told my daughter yesterday, "He's going to be okay."

He has youth on his side to help his healing. He also has superb care, from the EMS team at the scene of the accident and the police sergeant who arrived within moments of the 9-1-1 call being placed, to the Emergency Room staff who fought so hard to save him and the ICU team who wouldn't give up. The care he received saved his life. The care he is receiving today will ensure he will continue to prosper in his life moving forward.

At the Drop-In, we seldom talk about the lives of those who have been helped by what we do. When you're in the business of saving lives, there is no time to spare counting accolades. There's also the issue of privacy. Sometimes, people don't want to reveal that their lives have been in such disarray. Sometimes, in their desire to leave the past behind, they don't give a forwarding address. And, sometimes, just as the health care system saves lives, what we do is simply our work.

In our work, miracles happen every day that only we see. "A miracle, " I recently read in a letter from a friend, "is not the suspension of natural law, but the operation of a higher law."In health care, in the care of homelessness, in the police service and public service sectors all over, miracles happen every day because we are committed to making a difference in other people's lives. We are committed to working to a higher law, a greater purpose that serves others.

Every day, someone walks away from homelessness into a situation that will pave the way to their living a self-sufficient and productive life again. Every day, someone gets into rehab. Someone gets the mental health care they need. And every day, thousands of lives are saved because shelters like ours are there to provide them a safe place to catch their breath, find their balance and reclaim their sense of direction.Every day, in hospitals throughout the city, more people are healed than those who cannot be healed. Most find the treatment, help and support they need to cure whatever ails them.

And every day, people chat, like the group I overheard in the hospital lobby, about what's not going right, about all that's wrong. They sit on their chairs and complain, and never get down to the business of making a difference. They miss the miracles and get lost in their criticisms.

The miracle is people continue to make a difference in spite of the complaints. It's not a miracle the health care system works. It's not a miracle public service works. It's hard work, commitment and a dedication to helping those in need by people convinced they will make a difference by staying focused on their purpose. They leave the rhetoric to those who would paint them with the brush of failure. They don’t have time for failure, they’re too busy getting the job done.

Life is a miracle. What I do with it is up to me. How I respond. How I react to circumstances, to other people, to trials and tribulations -- that's all my doing. When I look at my life as a miracle, I see miracles reflected all around me. So, for today, I shall walk through each moment celebrating the miracle of life around me. For today, I shall remember, I have a choice, to complain about life, or celebrate it. I can look for rainbows dancing in my wake or fault-lines waiting to trip me up.

Will you sit on your chair and complain, or will you get up and make a difference?

The Miracle of Christmas

2007-12-21T15:12:00.000-07:00

Over 2000 years ago, a mother and father huddled together in a tiny stable and witnessed the birth of their child. The story of the Christ child’s birth has lived throughout the years. It touches all our hearts, Christian and non-Christian, believer and non-believer. No matter if we believe He came to earth to ‘save our souls from Satan’s power’, or if he was simply a powerful prophet, or just a great man whose story has survived the ages, His birth represents the power of love to create peace in the world and to restore our spirits as we celebrate the miracle of life.

Christmas is a time to celebrate. A time when we are connected in love to the miracle of one child’s birth long ago that reminds us, every year, that we too are miracles of birth inspired by the act of love that ignites our journey of life – in all its limitless possibilities.

Last night, as I wrapped presents and reflected on the meaning of Christmas, my spirit lifted. Sitting in my cozy living room, surrounded by twinkling lights and festive bows and crinkly wrapping paper, I felt connected to the millions of other parents, grandparents, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, friends and lovers who wrapped and taped and lovingly placed gifts beneath a twinkling tree – a tree that we had decorated together with those we love as we shared in the joy of hanging each ornament, old and new, upon its fragrant boughs. As I wrapped and hummed a Christmas melody (and sipped a glass of cheer!), I felt the power of Christmas surround me. As I placed a pretty bow upon each gift I thought about the person to whom I was giving and my heart was filled with love. In that love lay the true meaning of Christmas. It wasn’t in the gifts, or the giving. It didn’t lay in colourful disarray piled beneath the tree, but in the love that filled my heart as I thought about my daughters, family and friends whom I love so dearly and who mean the world to me and who create such meaning in my world.

What a miracle Christmas is! 2000 years ago a child was born and from His birth has grown this night where the world stops, and takes a collective breath as we join in a song of love, faith, hope and joy. 2000 years ago a child’s birth gave birth to my evening last night. I sat alone and felt the power of that moment touch me. I took a deep enlivening breath and felt my heart expand in love. In that breath, I was connected by the circle of love into which I was born and which encircled my daughters as I embraced the miracle of their lives to change my life. For just as the Christchild was a gift of love for his parents, and ultimately the world, with my daughters' births I was given the greatest gift of all -- the awesome reminder that life is a miracle and each birth a precious gift of love; powerful, enduring, everlasting.

This Christmas, as I reflect upon my life, I am reminded, once again, of the power of love to heal, to make peace and to create miracles. And that is the true meaning of Christmas for me. A celebration of birth, of life, of love. A healing. An awakening. A miracle that wraps us all in a never-ending circle of love.

Here at the Drop-In, we see miracles every day. Small ones. Big ones. Infinitesimal ones. They're the miracle of an addict asking to go to rehab. A mentally disabled person getting the care they need or in the words of thanks from a senior getting a home of their own in Bridgeland Manor. They're in a stranger's kind words to a person lying on the street and someone else coming in to volunteer their time, or to drop off a donation. Miracles come in many forms at the Drop-In and with each one we are reminded -- we are not alone.

We can't do what we do alone. We can't do it without the help of the countless thousands who donate their time, energy and resources to make a difference in the lives of those who have nothing. Thank you.

Merry Christmas to each and everyone of you. May your spirits be light, your hearts full of love and may your world be filled with the limitless possibilities of the miracle of your life as you live each moment, filled with love, gratitude and joy.

Generosity of spirit on the street

2007-12-20T15:32:00.000-07:00

People are amazing.

Yesterday we filmed a new TV commercial for the Drop-In, part of the series called, Little Things. The film crew, about 8 people, had all donated some of their time -- an amazing gift as it cut the cost of the already discounted budget by half!

When I arrived on the set on the 8th Avenue Mall at the entrance to the Telus Convention Centre, two gentlemen were talking in front of the large plate glass windows where the cameras were set up. I wondered if they were the actors, (they looked the part) or not -- they were the actors. We chatted for awhile and then the crew went inside.

The plan was to film through the plate glass windows looking out at the street and the two homeless characters outside. The camera would pull back to reveal two well dressed business man having a coffee at a stand-up bar.

The setting outside was surreal, and very believable. One man lay on a piece of cardboard on a grate on the sidewalk while the other sat on a bench behind him. From beneath the grate, two dress steamers blew steam up through the grate outside. A well provisioned shopping cart, complete with bags of bottles hanging off the sides sat at the edge of the grate while a park bench was lined up perpendicular to the windows behind which we watched the scene unfold.

At one point, a crew member went out to give one of the actors direction. As he was talking to the man lying on the ground a female passerby approached, her body posture combative.

"Is this man bothering you?" she asked the man lying on the ground, her gloved hand pointing at the crew member, her voice filled with concern.

The crew member looked at her, surprised. "No," he replied. "We're filming a commercial. He's an actor"

Embarrassed, the woman quickly apologized and left, leaving us all with a sense of awe that she cared enough to intervene, even when the odds were against her. We were all touched by her concern for the homeless actor on the ground.

Awhile later, the actors were alone outside as everyone was busy getting ready inside. Two police officers approached, prepared to move the actors from their resting place. The Director and I raced outside and moved the officers along before they ticketed our actors!

Another woman, carrying a big paper shopping bag, walked by and stopped to chat to the two 'homeless' actors.

"Here," she said to one of the actors as she pulled a big woolen sock out of her shopping bag.

"Merry Christmas" and she handed him the sock filled with toiletries and Christmas goodies which she had been intending to bring down to the Drop-In along with the other socks in her bag.

"Oh no. I can't," said the actor. "I'm just playing the role of a homeless guy for a commercial."

The woman didn't believe him. "Please, take it." She waved the sock towards him.

He gestured to the camera and crew hiding behind the glass.

"Oh!" She laughed. Waved at us and carried on her way.

Joe* is a client of the shelter. He wandered onto set later in the day. He stood and watched the action outside that wasn't really action as the filming had not yet started.

Eventually he came inside.

"Hi," I said as he stumbled towards me.

"Hey! I know you!" he exclaimed in friendly recognition.

We chatted for awhile, his words slurred. He's quick minded. Funny. Self-deprecating kind of humour. "I auditioned for a movie role," he said. "They told me I was too good looking."

"I can understand that," I replied with a smile.

"I could be in this movie," he said, motioning to the actors outside. "I could go out there an pick bottles. I'm the world's greatest bottle picker."

"They'll want you to be sober, Joe," I replied gently.

"Oh that." He scoffed, waving his 'to go' coffee mug in front of him. "Everyone always wants that." He paused and grinned at me. "I gotta drink to get through my day."

"Can I get you some more coffee?" I asked pointing at his mug.

"Aahhhh. I cannot lie to you," he said grinning sheepishly. "It's beer." And he tilted his head back, lifted the mug to his lips and took a long, satisfying swallow.

It was a day of contradictions. Another homeless woman stumbled onto set. Set her backpack on the ground and started to chat amiably with the actors. We watched from behind the glass. They obviously didn't tell her what they were doing there. From her jacket pocket she hauled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them both a smoke.

The generosity of someone who has nothing.

I filled a coffee cup, grabbed a couple of sugar and creams and took it out to her. "Would you like a coffee?" I asked.

She looked at me, nodded her head up and down, her body moving in constant jerky bobs. "Nice," she said. "Nobody gets left behind."

She took the coffee, sweetened it with the sugars, picked up her pack and continued on her way.

The actors continued to hold their positions. People continued to walk by, most trying to avoid looking at the poor derelicts lying on the ground.

A school group wandered past, a mother hastily grabbing her son, tucking him under her arm as she pulled him closer to the side of the building so that they could pass as far away from the scene as possible.

A well-dressed, affluent looking business man walked by. He glanced furtively at the scene of the two men, one lying on the grate, the other sitting on the bench smoking. His face was a study of disgust.

Some walked by, dropped a coin and continued on their way before anyone could object. Others hurried by without looking.

Contradictions. Generosity of spirit. Coldness of heart.

It was all part of the parade of life that unfolded yesterday on the street where so many people live.

Thank you to Trigger Communications & Design Ltd. and Joe Media -- you guys are awesome!

There aughta' be a law!

2007-12-18T14:53:00.000-07:00

Written by: Nurse James, Staff

I am on the second floor dinning hall at supper time. It is a Sunday night, and it is busy.

Even though I am the Nurse for the Drop-In Centre, I frequently come out of my office and help the staff on the second floor, especially around supper time. I get to hang out with the clients, which gives me a chance to know them a bit better and to work with the staff.

Tonight it pays off to know the clients by name and mannerisms.

I spot a client about ten meters from where I am. I am talking with another client about flu shots, and I observe a female client with an unsteady and unbalanced gait. Now I know that working where I do, and at night, this certainly is not an unusual or isolated occurrence. At any give time we have many inebriates and clients that are in a drug induced state. But like I said, knowing this client and seeing her walk the way she was walking was unusual to me.

I cautiously approach her and ask if she is OK. I say cautiously because I know that she is not a drinker nor a heavy drug user and I do not want to seem accusatory in any way.

She has a black eye, and she has several bruises and areas on her forehead that are swollen. Conversing with her for less than two minutes I determine that she has suffered a head injury.

She tells me that she was assaulted leaving the train platform yesterday. She tells me that she was knocked unconscious and that she woke up an undetermined amount of time later, confused, disoriented. A little bit later, she woke up some more and realizes that three hours have passed and that she is not at the train station any more, she is downtown somewhere.

She calls her boyfriend on the phone and he comes to find her and takes her to a Medical Clinic not far away.

She does not have an Alberta Health Care Card.

At the Clinic the Nurses and the Doctors tell her that she is not severely hurt. Send her on her way without checking to see if she needs more of an assessment.

They tell her to return when she has insurance.

As I am talking with her I can see that her left pupil is greater in diameter than her right pupil. The pupil size troubles me, as I know that this is a sign of an internal head injury.

She is having trouble speaking and remembering things, this is another indication she has a head injury. She cannot remember where she was or what she did for three hours. These are all indicators that she has a head injury and that something is wrong.

I advise her that she needs a Doctor and she tells me no, she already tried that route.

I talk with her a little more, and I convince her to see a Doctor that I know from CUPS. She agrees.

The Doctor at CUPS looks at her and calls CUPS transport to have a CAT SCAN and MRI done on her.

She goes to the Peter Lougheed Hospital.

She has a concussion and bruised retina.

The neurologist tells her it is a good thing that she came to see them. Her concussion is mild and will pass within a week or so, but the eye needs to be assessed more thoroughly.

She returns to see me a day later and thanks me for 'strongly advising her' to see a Doctor. As she tells me what the Hospital found on the CAT SCAN, she can see I am not happy at all. She asks if I am upset.

Upset?

No, I am not upset. Upset is what you get when you spill your coffee in your lap. Upset is what you get when you lock your keys in your car. I tell her I am more than upset.

I am furious. I am extremely disappointed that something like this can happen in our city.

Calgary is one of the most diverse, wealthy cities in North America; maybe the world. And STILL this happens? Someone with no fixed address and poor is told by some Medical Professional that they will not see her and treat her injuries because she has no insurance?

I am more than upset. This should not happen in this day and age. With all of our vast knowledge and our claims to be civilized this person, this human being is slighted and told to come back when she has insurance.

There outta be a law...oh wait a minute. There is a law. Hospitals and Clinics cannot refuse to see a person based on income or insurance status. But STILL it happens. It happens a lot more than I would like to think it does.

I am also happy. Happy that she is alright, and that with proper ongoing treatment, maybe she will have normal vision in her left eye.

Maybe.

Written and submitted by: Nurse James, Calgary Drop-In & Rehab Centre

DISCLAIMER: The articles posted on this blog are the personal views and commentary of the individual writers.

Song of Joy

2007-12-18T09:26:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday night, we had graduation at the Dale Carnegie course here at the Drop-In. In a gesture of generosity and kindness, John and Faye Fisher, who own the franchise, provided the course as their charitable contribution. They wanted to do something to make a difference and improve the lives of those who give so much every day at the Drop-In.

It was a beautiful event, filled with heart-filled stories of people's lives becoming more than ever imagined possible. Of hearts learning the words to songs they've yearned to sing. Of eyes opening wide to the beauty within. Of minds listening to the unique voice behind the speaker.

The assignment for last night was to talk for two minutes about a specific time during the training where one of Dale Carnegie's principles helped each of us do something differently. And then, to spend a minute talking about six months from now as if six months from now was reality.

For me, I talked about the form I had to fill in when registering for the course. One of the questions asked what was my vision for my life? The first lesson in the Dale Carnegie course focuses on building a foundation for success -- thus, it's important to write down dreams and goals and to identify at least one thing I can do differently to be successful -- and then make a plan to do it.

Now, I have always resisted dreaming. Always resisted setting goals. Not that I haven't had any, but my fear of articulating them kept me from actually putting them to paper and then taking the necessary steps to move towards them. Too many voices from childhood clamoured to overrun my dreams with their insistence that I was stupid, or dumb, or simply wrong for dreaming. My fear kept me mired in building sandcastles in the air because I was terrified that anything I did to make my dreams concrete would be washed away beneath the laughter of others. I was afraid of falling and thus, told myself I couldn't fly.

Last night, I stood up in front of the group and claimed my dreams. I stepped into the centre of my light, and cast away my fear of standing in the darkness of my dreams vanishing into thin air because I was afraid of living them. Last night, I spoke of my dreams and claimed my right to create them as the centre piece of my very own wild and precious life.

Last Thursday night, I was privileged to share in my classmates and co-workers doing the same.

What a powerful, moving and inspiring event. To witness wings unfold. To watch in awe as they expanded into the delicate and vibrant beauty of their owner's light shining for all to see. To sit humbled in the glow of the greatness and the magnificence of the hearts beating around me to the beautiful sound of their dreams awakening and their unique voices singing a song of love and joy.

It was magnificent.

For these past three months I have been privileged to hear the stories and to see into the hearts of people who give themselves everyday to the care of those who have lost their voices. Like our clients at the Drop-In, many of us never knew how beautiful our voices were and are. For some, because somewhere in the past someone told them they sang off-key, or perhaps because someone silenced their voices through fear and intimidation and abuse, their voices had never been heard.

Last night, I heard voices in song so pure my tears flowed in awe. My heart beat a wild tattoo of joy.

There is nothing more beautiful and powerful than the human spirit opening itself up to love. Nothing more inspiring than passionate voices rising above the cacophony of the past and singing out in joy for the freedom to be all that they are meant to be.

I was in awe last Thursday night. These are my co-workers. My friends. These are people I admire. I care for. People who inspire me. Who challenge me. They show me how to see and hear the humanity in the people we serve and who, through their example, teach me the meaning of being a magnificent human being filled with gratitude, humility and love.

Thank you to John and Faye, and to the amazing people who assisted in the course -- Matthew, Aaron, Evan, Michael and Patty. Your commitment, dedication and generosity of spirit have created a new world of opportunity for all of us who were privledged to be guided by you through the course of the 12 week program. The difference you have made is seen in the enthusiam and passion we bring to the job every day -- and the fact we can 'take them there' without hesitation! Thank you.

Fight!

2007-11-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

I went to a hockey game last night. I was invited by a friend whose company has a private box. Needless to say, the private box was spectacular. Food, wine, careful attention to our every need.

I'm not much of a hockey fan -- but sometimes it is fun to go and experience life on the other side of opulence. That rich, phat place where anything is made possible by the unlimited supply of the coin that fuels our economy.

Quite the polar opposite of the environment at the Drop-In. That place where there isn't enough money in the world to mend the broken psyches of those who have fallen so completely on the road of life.

Money doesn't heal addictions. Money doesn't mend broken spirits.

Only people can do that.And for those who have lost their footing on the cold hard pavement of the facts of life with no coin, money has no value except to buy you more of the poison that flows into your veins with the incessant monotony of a tap that will not quit dripping.

At a couple of points last night, two players whipped off their protective gear and got to the business of pummeling each other out. The fans went berserk. Screaming. Hollering. Yelling. Cheering the pugilists on, the crowd rose as one. Arms punched the air. Feet stomped the concrete concourse. The arena went wild.

I've seen behaviour like that at the shelter where I work. Two men duke it out. A crowd gathers goading them on. Mayhem ensues for a short while until staff quickly step in and pull them apart.

In the hockey arena, the referees step back and wait and then enter the fray only after an appropriate time has passed when they consider the crowd's hunger for the drama unfolding on the ice has been satiated. The players are sent to individual boxes to cool it off. When their time is up, they get back on the ice and go at it again, confident that their untempered display of aggression will be rewarded by the crowd should they go at it again.

Sometimes, at the Drop-In the police are called and the fighters are arrested and sent to individual cells to serve their time, until such time as they are released to go at it again. They have no confidence it won't happen again. Theirs is a violent world. A world in which the only thing they carry is their attitude and the aggression they hold up like a shield to fend off anyone who dares to question their right to go at it again.

There's a world of difference between the men who got out on the ice and fought last night, and the men who fight in the real, hard world of getting by day by day in a shelter. Two separate worlds. Same humans.

In one, the human beings are compelled by their nature to assert dominance in the field, on the ice, in the arena of life where their actions become part of the excitement that fuels the game. In the other, the men are acting out the same drive to be dominant, to protect whatever turf they can mark, to defend their position -- right or wrong. They are morally condemned by the same world that condones fighting in the hockey arena as a socially acceptable tradition of men being men. One ends up in the penalty box and earns a million bucks. The other ends up in an 8x8 cell and earns a record that's criminal. Go figure.

The question is: Where on earth do we get off on rewarding fights in the arena and penalizing those who fight in the arena of life where every toehold is a hard won battle of spirit over the drive to numb the pain of living on the edge of desperation?

Fear of the unknown

2007-11-16T14:46:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I gave a presentation to a group of teachers on a Personal Development day. There were 16 of them, and one of them was late. We sat in the boardroom chatting while we waited. One woman's cellphone rang. It was the missing teacher.

"Come to the building and ring the buzzer," the teacher who answered the phone said. "That way you won't have to park across the street in the parking lot and walk to the building alone." And she went on to give precise instructions on what to do and where to go.

Now, that walk across the street from the parking lot is in full view of the building. It is monitored by cameras. It consists of walking out the gate of the parking lot, ten feet to the roadway, crossing the road, and walking through the gates to our building and up the 50 feet of driveway to the front doors. Staff and volunteers do it every day. We have never had an incident of a staff or volunteer being accosted on that short walk.

I was curious. "What is it you fear might happen to her if she walks from the parking lot to the building?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm not really afraid," she replied with a smile. "It's just scary to walk across the street by yourself down there."

"And what makes it so scary?" I probed.

"Well," and she hesitated. "Look at the people around. Who knows what might happen?"

"What do you fear might happen?" I asked again.

She replied that old stand-by, "I don't know."

Most times, we do know. We're just afraid of saying, or facing the truth.I know what this woman feared. She feared her friend might be raped or or knifed or murdered crossing the street to the shelter. She feared her friend would feel fear crossing the street. Whether or not the fear is real, the feeling of it is scary. I asked her if that was the case.

"Well.... It's possible." she replied.

"Absolutely," I agreed. "But can we talk about what is the fear you're feeling in this instance? It is ultimately, part of what my presentation is all about."

The woman graciously agreed.

"Who are these people you fear?" I asked the group.

Several people spoke up and said, "But I don't fear them."

I disagreed (politely). "You walked to the building in a group and when one member came alone, you made sure she didn't have to walk across the street alone. I remember the first day I walked into the building for an interview. I was terrified. I stood in the lobby and wondered what on earth am I doing here. This is a scary place."

"Oh, I'm not scared being in the building," the woman with the cellphone said. "I just don't like walking into it."

"The people inside are the same people who are outside," I replied. "What's the difference?"

"Well, there's no staff out there. Anything could happen."

"Yes. Anything can happen. Who and what are you to trust? Your instincts or your fear of the unknown?" I looked around the group. "And what I want to do today is challenge your thinking so that we can dispel your fear of the unknown. Who are the homeless?" I asked.

The words came out. Addicts. Mentally challenged. Runaways. Working poor.

"Those are all labels," I replied. "The labels help us make sense of something we don't understand. The labels help us separate from who 'those people' on the street are, and ourselves. They help us maintain our difference. But, if we peel away the labels, what do we have? We have mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, next door neighbours, the old guy down the street who spent his life savings caring for his wife and lost his home. Peel away the labels and we have everyday people lost on the road of life."

On that morning, I trusted myself to ask tough questions of a group of people who came into the shelter to learn about something they didn't understand. To do that, I had to ask them to question their fears, to confront them and to step into them.That woman was afraid of having her friend cross the street, not because of the people, but rather, because of her fears of the unknown.

Now -- I don't think it's a good idea to walk in this neighbourhood after dark. And I do acknowledge if you've never been in the Drop-In before, coming here can be scary. But, to let fear limit learning, to let it keep you from walking across the street -- that is fearful.

I believe it's important to be vigilant. But, to fear 'simply because', is not healthy. We expend too much energy fighting the unknown and lose our ability to recognize when our intuition kicks in warning us of people and circumstances we need to fear.

On that morning, 16 people walked away with an understanding of what they fear. As I told them at the end, "What separates us and people who are homeless is an address. What we share is fear. We fear them. We fear what has happened to their lives. We fear the street. We fear what it is that takes human beings so far from home. And we fear that it could happen to us too."

Heads nodded around the room.

I continued. "They fear the street too. Fear is the predominant emotion on the street. Fear is real. It's up to us to stay real with our fears and not give into our imagination's desire to drive us into fear when we are safe."

For those who are homeless, our fear of them surrounds us every time we meet on the street. It breathes into and out of our pores. In our fear, we lose the ability to understand, to hear what they're saying, to look at them through different eyes.

Being homeless is not a game. It's not a cakewalk. It can be deadly -- not for you and me crossing the street, but rather, for those whose lives are eroded day by day by the fear that permeates their lives every day on the streets they walk.