Charity
I have this weird... fear, for lack of a better word, of charity. Not of receiving it, but of giving it.
I woke up this morning with this idea in my head. I was going to make a ton of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, buy a couple bags of oranges, and I was going to go downtown and distribute them under the bridge. A part of that was me thinking about what Memorial Day means to me. I'm not remotely patriotic. But I believe a society has a responsibility to take care of those it puts in harms way. And the number of Vets living under the bridges in downtown Portland is testament to our absolute unwillingness to do so. Giving a grown man a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an orange isn't much in the way of thank you, but it's a start.
The other part of it was the fact that I think about doing this all the time. Making a couple pots of chili, some rice, putting it in the back of my car, and distributing it on paper plates at night, downtown. Rice and beans, mashed potatoes... I think about all the things I could make that are so freaking cheap and easy for me, that I make huge amounts of for every bbq. And I think about how it easy it would be to just start giving it out to people. Yeah, plastic utensils aren't cheap. But neither is the alcohol I buy myself. Feeding 30 people would cost me less than one really good sushi meal. One meal. God, thinking about that makes me sick.
So, I think about doing these things, A LOT. Why don't I follow through?
A part of it is fear. I think about the confrontations that might happen, the reality of walking around downtown at night, pushing myself into a group of disenfranchised humans with very little to lose.
A part of it is an absolute LOATHING of insincerity on my part. I wonder why I want to do these things. The stories that play out in my head when I think about doing it, the gratitude that of course I'd shrug off because I'm undeserving, the happiness of kids, the redemption of men. These stories read like a book I wouldn't even want to read, so full of smug self satisfaction and sad blindness.
And another part of it is this knowledge that once I start, once I go down this road, I can't stop. Once I commit myself to helping, to really seeing, to not looking away out of laziness and discomfort... I can't let go of that. Not without letting go of something I truly prize about myself. I have no sense of proportion when it comes to giving. If I give myself to you, I give completely, everything I am, and you have the power to destroy me. Or I give nothing, and I walk away with no scars. If I give myself to a cause, I'm afraid that I'll become that cause, with no room for balance. Or worse, I'll walk away, and I'll be so ashamed that I won't be able to look into that part of me anymore.
Of course, I have no way of knowing what I'm going to do, because I've never really done it. All of this is just speculation on my part. I'm allowing a stupid fear of something that doesn't even make sense to stop me from doing something that I know I would love. I love cooking. I love giving to people. I love putting something of myself in what I make, and knowing I'm nourishing other humans. I love interacting with people, especially people the world mostly ignores. I love helping spread the truth of quiet dignity that every single existence deserves.
I woke up this morning with this idea in my head. I was going to make a ton of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, buy a couple bags of oranges, and I was going to go downtown and distribute them under the bridge. A part of that was me thinking about what Memorial Day means to me. I'm not remotely patriotic. But I believe a society has a responsibility to take care of those it puts in harms way. And the number of Vets living under the bridges in downtown Portland is testament to our absolute unwillingness to do so. Giving a grown man a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an orange isn't much in the way of thank you, but it's a start.
The other part of it was the fact that I think about doing this all the time. Making a couple pots of chili, some rice, putting it in the back of my car, and distributing it on paper plates at night, downtown. Rice and beans, mashed potatoes... I think about all the things I could make that are so freaking cheap and easy for me, that I make huge amounts of for every bbq. And I think about how it easy it would be to just start giving it out to people. Yeah, plastic utensils aren't cheap. But neither is the alcohol I buy myself. Feeding 30 people would cost me less than one really good sushi meal. One meal. God, thinking about that makes me sick.
So, I think about doing these things, A LOT. Why don't I follow through?
A part of it is fear. I think about the confrontations that might happen, the reality of walking around downtown at night, pushing myself into a group of disenfranchised humans with very little to lose.
A part of it is an absolute LOATHING of insincerity on my part. I wonder why I want to do these things. The stories that play out in my head when I think about doing it, the gratitude that of course I'd shrug off because I'm undeserving, the happiness of kids, the redemption of men. These stories read like a book I wouldn't even want to read, so full of smug self satisfaction and sad blindness.
And another part of it is this knowledge that once I start, once I go down this road, I can't stop. Once I commit myself to helping, to really seeing, to not looking away out of laziness and discomfort... I can't let go of that. Not without letting go of something I truly prize about myself. I have no sense of proportion when it comes to giving. If I give myself to you, I give completely, everything I am, and you have the power to destroy me. Or I give nothing, and I walk away with no scars. If I give myself to a cause, I'm afraid that I'll become that cause, with no room for balance. Or worse, I'll walk away, and I'll be so ashamed that I won't be able to look into that part of me anymore.
Of course, I have no way of knowing what I'm going to do, because I've never really done it. All of this is just speculation on my part. I'm allowing a stupid fear of something that doesn't even make sense to stop me from doing something that I know I would love. I love cooking. I love giving to people. I love putting something of myself in what I make, and knowing I'm nourishing other humans. I love interacting with people, especially people the world mostly ignores. I love helping spread the truth of quiet dignity that every single existence deserves.
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