I know I'll be okay

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.