"They Say That In This Life Every Meeting Is a Reunion"

The title to this post is a quote from the movie "The Grandmaster." When the two martial artists in the above photo meet, the sparks are blinding--and not from the punches and kicks they deliver.

When I was first dating Dan, he seemed so familiar to me that I would sometimes wrack my brain over it. Who was it that he reminded me of? It was like a word on the tip of my tongue that I couldn't quite utter. At the same time, all I could think of was how different we were, and why could he possibly be interested in me when we were really into very different things. And of course there was my wreck of a life that I was dragging behind me. All we really have is right now, this moment, he would tell me. Just be right here.

I don't really watch a lot of martial arts movies, but if "The Grandmaster" is any example, there are a lot of shots of feet. Our feet let us know where we are right now. And of course, they're very important in the martial arts.

Tonight I went to a T'ai Chi Chih (not a martial art, but a moving meditation) practice in a location that is not my usual one. We had just begun when a homeless guy walked in. He was staggering and looked a bit out of it, but he joined the circle, waving his arms around, not really following our moves. "Yoga," he said. Then "Nam Myoho Renge Kyo." (A Buddhist chant)

"You're welcome to join us," the teacher said. "Or sit and watch. But we're going to do our practice." So we did. The guy stood in the circle with us, but mostly did his own thing. Not too disruptively.  I put my attention in the soles of my feet. About half-way through, he left the room and later reappeared in the lobby. I had the perfect vantage point from which to see him perusing the various pieces of literature. (We were in a church.) Pretty soon he walked out the door and staggered across the parking lot as he made the sign of the cross.

Reunion? Perhaps. We never know for sure, I guess. Every encounter holds something way more mysterious than the fortunes I keep on my kitchen windowsill.

Buy Local. Buy Handcrafted. Zero Emissions.

These beautiful and useful gifts are available in a "pop-up store" at Bloomingdale's and at the gift shop at the Skirball Center as part of the exhibit Women Hold Up Half the Sky. You can go to these lovely places and shop. Or you can go right to the source by taking the Gold Line train downtown to the Little Tokyo/Arts District station (where else can you see Buddist monks next to a Christmas tree?) have a stroll through the Little Tokyo Plaza, maybe have some lunch, and then angle toward San Pedro Street.

Between 4th and 5th is where you will find The Downtown Women's Center. You'll see a sandwich board on the sidewalk that reads, "MADE," the name of the boutique and coffee shop there. Push through those big historic doors. Marvel. Chat. Have some coffee. Oh--and shop.

Some of my favorite gifts: Handmade soap, decoupaged picture frames and mirrors, journals made from the covers of old recycled library books (the pages of these books are used for the decoupaged items,) hand knit scarves, little felt animals, candles in vintage tea cups and pretty glasses, earrings.

Some of the women you pass on the way in or out just might be the artisan who made the beautiful thing that caught your eye.

Joy to the world. Joy to your wallet and your soul.

I Might Need a Makeover

I did a volunteer shift at the Downtown Women's Center today. Instead of sorting donations like I did Tuesday (Dear person who decided to own a pair of Earth Shoes in every color and then changed your mind about Earth Shoes, thank you,) I began training to work in "Made," the coffee shop/boutique. I'm learning how to use the cash register and make espresso drinks on a coffee machine that's only slightly smaller than a Smart Car. The idea behind this training is that, eventually, I will be able to train some of the women who are currently homeless in the DWC's job training program.
And if my worst case scenario arrives, I will have a marketable skill or two.
Or maybe someday, I'll have a little coffee place of my own: Beach Beans.

At the end of my shift, I was asked to deposit a large bag of trash in the dumpster behind the center. I wrangled the monster bag out the door and through the parking lot gate, noticing that the massive pedestrian gates were already closed and locked. Hmmm. That's right, I thought, I'll bet the day center is closed today for the all-staff meeting. Then I heard a slight whirring and a clunk. The parking lot gates. Yup. There I was, not looking my sharpest with a head of hat-hair after my café shift (yes, the job requires a hat, but it's not paper and looks stylish on most people,) toting a large black trash bag. The staff person who bolted out the door asked me very politely, and almost tenderly, if she could help me, but I'm pretty sure she thought I was homeless.

Note to self: dress for success, and carry a comb and some hair product.

Photo note: The pictures above and below are from"Made" the DWC boutique and coffee café.

As I begin to shape my weeks in a way that will include experiences other than staring at a blank word document and wishing I could or would write something, I have been doing a couple of different volunteer jobs. Today I sorted clothing donations at the DWC. A mountain of clothes. More clothes from Ann Taylor Loft than the inventory of an actual Ann Taylor Loft store. Things in such pristine condition that they may have actually been donated by the store. And if not, there's someone out there with a serious shopping addiction who just cleaned out her closet.

Los Angeles amazes me in this way. Such plenty. Such poverty. Three times a week, the women who patronize the DWC day center (these are the women who drop in for meals and showers and other care, but don't live there) get to "shop." The clothing, given the once over by volunteers like me in order to eliminate things too dirty or tattered, is sorted into piles of small, medium, large, and extra large before the women have at it. I haven't seen this in action yet, but today both residents and day center women chose Halloween costumes from the items we pulled from the giant pile and laid out on tables in the conference room. If you're downtown frequenting some of the meaner streets in the City of Angels, look for boas and flapper headdresses, for a genie, an airline stewardess, a church lady, a magician, a mannequin, a convict, and a doctor. Look for women who, once upon a time, probably had a place to call home just like you and me.

photo credit: dallas.about.com

Mother and Child

I suppose, if you're homeless, L.A. is preferable to colder locales.

I've in lived in L.A. since 1975, and the homeless have been a fixture from the beginning--the old guys who slept in the park near the duplex we rented in Culver City, the cast of characters who inhabited the broken-down house across the street from my apartment in the Wilshire district. In Silverlake there was the guy roving around with his guitar and the old lady with the dog who hung out in front of the 7-Eleven. That dog bit Mr. Ex and tore a hole in his brand new suit way back when--quite a scare and a financial blow to our modest finances then. When we lived in Los Feliz the homeless tumbled from the edges Griffith Park. I didn't like to walk in that neighborhood in the mornings. The bleary-eyed desperation of the guys dragging their sleeping bags out of the bushes scared me. Our next house was out of the city in a suburb, and people there joked that the police stopped anyone who looked homeless and pointed them west or south to an adjoining larger suburb--but still, there was the guy who seemed to live in the park tucked up against the mountains.

Certain pockets of downtown L.A. are well-populated with homeless people. Freeway off-ramps throughout the metropolitan area, even in tonier neighborhoods, are likely to have a homeless person holding a sign, stationed like a sentry. Lately I've noticed more women at those off-ramps. Women whose hair still holds the vestige of a decent cut, women with roller bags instead of shopping carts.

I can't recall, though, ever seeing a homeless woman with a baby on the streets of any of my neighborhoods in the City of Angels. Until tonight. She sat on the pavement next to the ATMs on the back side of Bank of America. Her sign said that she had two kids and couldn't pay her rent. I pondered what that meant exactly while I stood tapping my selections on the ATM screen. Had she been evicted?--or was she just trying to get enough rent money together so she could pay it? I knew I would give her money, but how much? Should I ask her if she knew about Para Los Ninos? If she had a safe place to stay for the night? Wait, I told myself, this doesn't make sense. If she has two kids like the sign says, where's the other one? Was she just panhandling for drug money like the woman who rides the Gold Line asking for pizza money for her kids? The regular train riders tell everyone she's a junkie. But the pizza woman never has her kids with her. This woman sat on the sidewalk with a baby in her lap. "God bless you," she said when I gave her the money. She didn't look strung out.

I walked on to the post office, wondering if I should swing by the police station. No. They'll take the baby, I thought, and put it in protective custody. I decided I'd go back and talk to the woman, but she was gone. It's chilly tonight. I hope she and her baby are warm. I hope that the next time I see a woman and a baby sitting on the sidewalk in my tidy little neighborhood, I'm a little quicker at working up the nerve to talk to her.

Homelessness: Real and Symbolic

I lived in a tent once. It might have been for a couple of weeks. Or less. Or more. I don't remember. I'd just moved to San Diego after college. I was in a performing commedia dell'arte troupe under the auspices of a UCSD summer program. Apartments in San Diego were expensive. A year or so before that I'd stayed on a friend's dorm room floor for a while after I returned to college before I found a place of my own that I could afford. I suppose you could say I was homeless. But not really. Not in the way that the homeless are homeless in big cities across the U.S. today. 


I spent the morning at the Downtown Women's Center. "Founded in 1978, the Downtown Women’s Center (DWC) is a nationally recognized nonprofit organization that provides over 50,000 meals, 71 permanent supportive housing apartments, and a wide array of health, education, and other supportive services to more than 2500 homeless and very low-income women each year. The Center meets our mission by offering a warm, friendly atmosphere that encourages homeless women to commit to their own betterment and healing process." They also provide meals, showers, and a haven from the streets for around a 150 women who drop in during the day.
I'm going to be volunteering at the DWC and hope eventually to do a creative writing workshop there.


After my orientation, I walked over to Occupy Wall Street Los Angeles. There were tents. Probably not inhabited by the truly homeless--but who knows? There was a lot of activity, but nothing very cohesive going on during the time that I circled the perimeter. Still, I was happy to see the involvement.


But the most inspiring part of the day was my visit to the DWC's cafe and gift store called "MADE." 

Many of the items for sale are made by the women of the DWC.

I especially loved these journals/sketch books made from the covers of old books.