The homeless are not afraid
to miss something.
What passes through their eyes
is how the clouds pass over the rushing cars,
the way pigeons miss some of the seeds
on the road and move away.
Yet only they know
what it means to have a home
and to return to it.
During my morning practice of reading and a savoring a poem, this stanza gave me pause. The “knowing” of the homeless Mikhail writes about is not a knowing we would envy. The homeless know what it means to have a home because they miss having one. But the “knowing” of this poem made me instantly grateful for my home, my life, the bed I sleep in each night.
I’ve been writing a lot this summer. I haven’t posted as much on this blog because I’ve been carefully crafting a book proposal that I’m hoping will turn into my first book. The book is about the “knowing” to which I have been led by people whose lives are wholly different than my own—prisoners, immigrants, LGBTQ+, persons of color. I should add the homeless. As a white woman of privilege I don’t know what their lives are like—in fact I am quite blind to and ignorant of this knowledge. But I can know. And I should. Because from knowing grows understanding. And understanding builds relationships. And when we are in relationship with each other we can begin to meet the needs of those who, for far too long, have been pushed aside by society.
[Feature Image: Patrick Marioné]