Perspective

There are racquetball courts here at Bedlam.  They are half open to the elements and not used very much.  Norah and I took Bry in here often and tossed the tennis ball around so she could chase it and get some exercise.  This morning, while in a funk, I took the ball and was going to toss it around a little but discovered the place was already occupied.

This view is from the outside window looking in.  Clear in the far corner I saw a blanketed fellow or fellow-ess sleeping.  That sooty dirty stuff at the bottom is a kind of grunge on the window.  

This is a cropped version of the above picture.  

After I got over the OMG-ness of it all, my philosopher side kicked in and began to reflect on the haphazardness of life.  The first 25 years of my life began in the small town of Seaton with my folks.  The final 6 years were mostly just habitating bedspace during the summers because of college and grad school, but it was still home nevertheless.  And in that small town, village really, everyone was clothed, fed and had a place of their own.  Some houses were better than others, of course, but even the most unsightly were good enough. 

I bought a couple places in G-Burg through the years and they provided the comforts of home, even the boxcar ala abode.  There was always the fun of motels or hotels (what's the difference?) when traveling.  Spent a lot of time in them for work training and conferences, then a lot in Clarksville when Brendan was in the Army.  But mostly it was home and work.  

A couple trips out West in 2004 where I tried, I really tried to camp out every other night to save money and get the true "roughing" it experience.  Soon, after a fateful night in Deadwood at the local KOA, I swore as fervently as Scarlett O'Hara swore about hunger that I would never go bedless again.  

Days Inn or any place, really, as long as it had a mattress,  a toilet and shower became my imprimatur.  I must stop you here, if you didn't already, and tell you that I type these missives generally stream-of-consciousness and without much polish.  I have no idea where the word imprimatur came from and should apologize for its use: it seems so arrogant to use such a word, but my father doled out a lot of money for my education and I want to let you know that, at times,  it shows.  I think it also very important to note that I most likely will never ever use it again.  And finally, I think it works in this case, but I am not sure.  Perhaps I should have paid more attention in class. 

OK, so where was I?  Ah, yes.  I swore never to go bedless again.  Which brings us to the past few years after finding myself a reluctant passenger on the SS Florida.  I have availed myself often of places to lay my head while in Northlandia and I should once again thank those who have provided that luxury and service.  Beyond those friends and family I have foisted myself upon and for those friends who have offered, this is the time I give thanks once again.   Thanks.

One of the openings into the woods for the homeless right next door to Bedlam.

So what does this all have to do with the guy above?  "There but by the grace of God, go I."  Whether by financial calamity, madness, laziness, developmental slowness, or sheer bad luck, the line that separates the bedded and the unbedded can be thin.  I was lucky.  I had the support of family and friends, I worked hard, I endured my share of suffering and enjoyed the good times.  I married and had great kids.  I did what was necessary.  But there are those who have not nearly enough of the things I took for granted.  Today I am thankful and terribly, terribly aware of my good fortune.  That man in the pictures slept on a cold cement floor that night.  I suspect he stayed there because they have been flushing out the woods adjacent to Bedlam of an army of homeless.  I walk by the woods and you can see their camps, their trash, their homes.  Wooded area that hides them for a while until the authorities arrive to drive them to some other quiet secluded place.  

It is that perspective that I need to whisper to myself every so often about the unabashed luck of being me.  This morning I scream it to you.  

ADDENDUM:

In what was supposed to be a short little post about luck and one's place in the world, this has expanded into a two-cup-of-coffee essay.  

The phrase "There but by the grace of God, go I" has been attributed to a few people through history, but the oldest reference is to a fellow by the name of John Bradford.  Mr. Bradford lived in the 16th century and was an educated man who was prominent in the protestant Church of England.  As people were led to the gallows he would often say, "There but for the grace of God goes John Bradford."  

As luck or cruelty would have it, he was jailed for inciting mob action, a thoroughly trumped up charge and sent to the Tower of London.  Hey folks, not much of an appeal process once you get there, and on July1st, 1555 he and three others were burned at the stake.  Before the fire took hold he glanced over at a young man  and said, "Be of good comfort brother, for we shall have a merry supper with the Lord tonight," which seems particularly in poor taste as they are about to become human shish kabob's.