Poesía

Y fue a esa edad... Llegó la poesía 

a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde 

salió, de invierno o río. 

No sé cómo ni cuándo, 

no, no eran voces, no eran 

palabras, ni silencio, 

pero desde una calle me llamaba, 

desde las ramas de la noche, 

de pronto entre los otros, 

entre fuegos violentos 

o regresando solo, 

allí estaba sin rostro 

y me tocaba.

Yo no sabía qué decir, mi boca 

no sabía 

nombrar, 

mis ojos eran ciegos, 

y algo golpeaba en mi alma, 

fiebre o alas perdidas, 

y me fui haciendo solo, 

descifrando 

aquella quemadura, 

y escribí la primera línea vaga, 

vaga, sin cuerpo, pura 

tontería, 

pura sabiduría 

del que no sabe nada, 

y vi de pronto 

el cielo 

desgranado 

y abierto, 

planetas, 

plantaciones palpitantes, 

la sombra perforada, 

acribillada 

por flechas, fuego y flores, 

la noche arrolladora, el universo.

Y yo, mínimo ser, 

ebrio del gran vacío 

constelado, 

a semejanza, a imagen 

del misterio, 

me sentí parte pura 

del abismo, 

rodé con las estrellas, 

mi corazón se desató en el viento.

Pablo Neruda

Do you know their names?

So for Spring Break, I was “stuck” in Nashville. All my plans fell through and I was wondering what I was going to do with myself alone for a whole week, with no car.

Well a lovely Katy S. solved the immobility issue. Thank you, dearest. And I wasn’t bored at all because of your generosity.

I saw at least one homeless person every day. Never the same one twice. The issue of homelessness was absolutely in the front of my mind on Wednesday night when I went to Institute to learn about generosity and tithing. My teacher asked us if we knew what The Contributor was. I do. It’s the paper that the homeless community sells in Nashville to earn money to feed themselves. It’s written by people who are or have been without a home. And it’s a great little paper.

Then he asked if any of us knew the name of someone who sold them. I don’t.

It’s easy to say that when I have a dollar on my person I buy the paper, but I was profoundly shaken by this realization: I don’t know the names of any homeless person.

Do you? People are not meant to be nameless. If one went missing or died wouldn’t we all like to know that someone knew something about us, anything… It’s just a name.

I drove home on Wednesday night at 3 in the morning. It was raining outside and cold, and I passed by a woman carrying a suitcase and looking disheveled. Maybe she has a home, but she looked like she would have liked some help, regardless. And I thought, as I drove right past her, “Why does this happen? Why would a woman be carrying a suitcase outside in the cold rain at 3 in the morning?” To my shame, I didn’t turn around. I was afraid for my own security, if I am honest. But even that excuse does not remove the shame.

Just today, driving, I passed 2 homeless men. One was selling The Contributor, one was just holding a sign. I bought a paper with my last dollar, so when I got stuck at a red light next to the next guy, I had nothing but change left.

I took all the change out of my wallet and rolled down the window. I stuck my arm out the window and said "Hi".” Then I told him this was all the money I had. He wouldn’t even take it before he lifted his head heavenward and praised God for me. He replied to me, that’s fine, you’re friendship is worth enough to me.” Then he returned to his prayer and said that I was the most beautiful woman in the world. After he finished thanking both me and God, he let me give him my change. And he told me I reminded him of Mother Mary and asked me if I was a missionary.

You, sir, do have my friendship. I’m sorry the light turned green so soon. I hope you had a hamburger with that dollar. If I see you again, I will tell you my real name, and ask for yours. That’s what I’ll do. Stay warm in heart. You gave me more than the pittance I gave to you.