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
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Monday, May 11, 2009
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
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
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
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, May 04, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Standing together
Life is a great big canvas, and you should throw all the paint on it you can. Danny KayeOn 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!
Saturday, April 18, 2009
One Enchanted Evening
If you can dream it, you can do it. Walt DisneyLast 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.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
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 LettersToday 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.
Monday, April 06, 2009
We won't forget you. Written by Diana E.
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
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
Friday, March 27, 2009
Stand By Us -- Written by John Leslie Rumboldt
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
No Longer Homeless --- Written by Richard B.
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.
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.
Friday, February 06, 2009
What Would My Mom Think? Written by Jim K. CTI Volunteer Instructor
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.
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.
Monday, February 02, 2009
The View From My Window -- Written By: Keri V.
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.
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.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Imagine -- Written by Cort Delano
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.
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.
Monday, January 05, 2009
A Miracle on Christmas Eve
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.
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.
Monday, December 29, 2008
The First Annual Musician's Carol
Happiness depends more on how life strikes you than on what happens. Andy RooneyOn 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.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Merry Christmas
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.
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.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Christmas at the DI
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.
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.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Small Gestures Make A Difference
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A little bit of a difference
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.
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.
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