Bodhi has become very interested in the homeless population of Denver. He asks questions, like, "Mama, does he have a home?" or "Where does he live?", etc. Recently he began requesting that we read all the signs they hold up toward oncoming traffic, "Old cowboy down on his luck", "You're getting very sleepy", "Anything helps", "Being homeless is no joke", "Willing to work", etc. I often carry granola bars in the console of our car to give when we see someone in need. As we were driving home from work on Friday, Bodhi asked me to read another sign asking for money. Bodhi asked if I had any money and I said "Yes". He asked me to give it to him so that he could give it to a "homeless". I gave him a dollar. Shortly we pulled up to a man standing on the corner holding a cardboard sign and looking haggard. I rolled down my window and explained that there was a young man in the back seat who wanted to help. At first he was confused, but his eyes welled in tears when Bodhi earnestly held out his crisp dollar bill, offering a concerned smile. "Thanks little dude, thanks". The light turned and we were off. Bodhi thought for a moment and said "Mommy how many dollars you have? Can we always give money!". I explained that we could always give something to everyone but not always money. Persistent as ever, he demanded explanation. I said, "Sometimes we can give food and sometimes a real smile, or a simple kindness or we can give namaste." What is namaste, Mommy?", he asked. "Namaste is when I look at someone and remind myself and them that the love in me, sees the love in them and smiles". Bodhi understood and became really excited, "Oooo, Ooo, Ooo Mommy, Like 'the Puff (the Magic Dragon) in me sees the Puff in you and ROARS!!!' ". "Exactly!", I said and now Bodhi can be heard roaring "Puff" to every cardboard sign carrying friend on the streets.
Grief is defined as a deep or intense sorrow. I have been thinking a lot about grief, about it's wide and sticky reach, about the watery quality of it's absorption and the agonizing effort of swimming to shore. Intense sorrow happens. It is a part of life. Yet we press against it. We try to eradicate it. How? We encapsulate our grief in a story, thus effectively removing us from the immediacy of the pain. The mind promises salvation and begins to tell a story, over and over and over. We listen to the inner ramblings, the constant diatribe, the neurotic attempt to avoid the experience. When someone is hurting we listen to their story, we talk about it, we recount our own story, but we certainly don't jump in the waters of sadness, instead we sit on the bank of our familiar longing. Once, when I was floundering in deep grief, my youngest brother knelt next to me and held me for over an hour. He didn't speak. He didn't commiserate. He just jumped in the
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