got caught up in the video game we’re all brainwashed into playing, consumed with chasing a nice apartment and a hot guy and a fancy wedding and more money and power. But none of that made me feel good, and it still doesn’t. So eventually, I learned to use my time differently, and better .
Amma says that there are two kinds of poverty. One is caused by lack of love, and the other is caused by lack of money. She teaches that if we can cure the first, the second will not exist. To that end, she’s directed her devotees to be mindful of homeless people in their own communities. Let’s face it. Americans are always talking about disasters in other countries, but we have the highest rate of violence against women and children in the Western world and sixteen thousand homeless kids in New York City alone! Where are they? Why don’t we see them? Are their moms selling them for crack? Are they being kept as massage slaves in some cramped storefront in Manhattan?
Kelly from the Bloque
Last year, inspired by Amma and the example of Eleanor, I was moved to become more proactive in my own neighborhood. In fact, I even made up a new name for myself; Kelly from the Block (or Bloque ). I’d often ordered extra meals at dinner to give away to the homeless on the walk home, but now I started making this a more regular thing. There is a man who lives in a stairwell around the corner from me. One night, walking back to my apartment with my daughter and her father, all of us incredibly well fed, I popped my head into the stairwell. “Hi, I’m your neighbor,” I said. “I’m wondering, is there anything that you need?” The man was about sixty-eight years old and kind of out of it. He grabbed me and said, “Yeah baby! I need a kiss from you!”
Okay, so sometimes people aren’t ready to accept your help at the exact moment you’re ready to give it. In New York, people get used to being on their own and not accepting help, since in this big, rich city, there often seems to be so little compassion available. I told the man I couldn’t kiss him, but that I’d be happy to help him find a shelter or get him some food. He said no—that he was okay. (Three months later I told this story to Amma herself; she laughed hysterically. I think she sees the beauty and humor in everything.)
I didn’t stop trying, though. Everyone sleeping on the streets of New York is someone’s child, and once I started to reject the idea that I’m just supposed to mind my own business while people suffer, I became unable to walk by anyone in need without stopping. This can be tricky in downtown Manhattan, because the “haves” and the “have-nots” tend to sport similar looks (I guess deconstruction and devastation sometimes go hand in hand).
One day, leaving the SoHo Grand Hotel with my trainer, I locked eyes with a man who was either a cool artist or a homeless person. What I noticed first was that his eyes were on fire. I watched as he glanced over toward the garbage cans—he was possibly hungry, but also discreet and elegant. Then I saw him pause in front of a gallery window to look at some art. I realized he was reading the reviews in the window, as if determined to stay connected to this earth and its culture. I bolted toward him. My trainer, who was just thrilled to see me in a full-on cardio sprint, followed close behind. When we caught up to the man, he turned around, and I saw that he was not only beautiful, but powerful. He didn’t look homeless; he looked like Adrian Brody’s uncle!
It was obvious he hadn’t yet crossed over into the realm of “here, but not there”—the place so many of society’s forgotten retreat to, behind a wall that protects them from our callousness. This man was still on the bridge, where a work rehabilitation program or even just a fucking hug could have been the thing that saved his life. I asked if he wanted my help. I even told him I knew he was someone’s child and that I recognized the Divine
Amma says that there are two kinds of poverty. One is caused by lack of love, and the other is caused by lack of money. She teaches that if we can cure the first, the second will not exist. To that end, she’s directed her devotees to be mindful of homeless people in their own communities. Let’s face it. Americans are always talking about disasters in other countries, but we have the highest rate of violence against women and children in the Western world and sixteen thousand homeless kids in New York City alone! Where are they? Why don’t we see them? Are their moms selling them for crack? Are they being kept as massage slaves in some cramped storefront in Manhattan?
Kelly from the Bloque
Last year, inspired by Amma and the example of Eleanor, I was moved to become more proactive in my own neighborhood. In fact, I even made up a new name for myself; Kelly from the Block (or Bloque ). I’d often ordered extra meals at dinner to give away to the homeless on the walk home, but now I started making this a more regular thing. There is a man who lives in a stairwell around the corner from me. One night, walking back to my apartment with my daughter and her father, all of us incredibly well fed, I popped my head into the stairwell. “Hi, I’m your neighbor,” I said. “I’m wondering, is there anything that you need?” The man was about sixty-eight years old and kind of out of it. He grabbed me and said, “Yeah baby! I need a kiss from you!”
Okay, so sometimes people aren’t ready to accept your help at the exact moment you’re ready to give it. In New York, people get used to being on their own and not accepting help, since in this big, rich city, there often seems to be so little compassion available. I told the man I couldn’t kiss him, but that I’d be happy to help him find a shelter or get him some food. He said no—that he was okay. (Three months later I told this story to Amma herself; she laughed hysterically. I think she sees the beauty and humor in everything.)
I didn’t stop trying, though. Everyone sleeping on the streets of New York is someone’s child, and once I started to reject the idea that I’m just supposed to mind my own business while people suffer, I became unable to walk by anyone in need without stopping. This can be tricky in downtown Manhattan, because the “haves” and the “have-nots” tend to sport similar looks (I guess deconstruction and devastation sometimes go hand in hand).
One day, leaving the SoHo Grand Hotel with my trainer, I locked eyes with a man who was either a cool artist or a homeless person. What I noticed first was that his eyes were on fire. I watched as he glanced over toward the garbage cans—he was possibly hungry, but also discreet and elegant. Then I saw him pause in front of a gallery window to look at some art. I realized he was reading the reviews in the window, as if determined to stay connected to this earth and its culture. I bolted toward him. My trainer, who was just thrilled to see me in a full-on cardio sprint, followed close behind. When we caught up to the man, he turned around, and I saw that he was not only beautiful, but powerful. He didn’t look homeless; he looked like Adrian Brody’s uncle!
It was obvious he hadn’t yet crossed over into the realm of “here, but not there”—the place so many of society’s forgotten retreat to, behind a wall that protects them from our callousness. This man was still on the bridge, where a work rehabilitation program or even just a fucking hug could have been the thing that saved his life. I asked if he wanted my help. I even told him I knew he was someone’s child and that I recognized the Divine
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