Medicine man in meat isle at the Coop.

~

I pray that I have the courage to keep my hands pressed up against the messy and mysterious pulse of this life and breathe deep the thick aroma of forest floor and diesel fume.

~

I gave a man the remaining cash within my wallet today, $17 dollars in all, in the frozen section at the coop. He approached me while I surveyed the grass fed beef options while shopping on this cold and and grey day, as snow thronged through the air in a snow globe fashion, temperatures dropping as the cars and corner-stores are blanketed in a white ecological beauty which hides our human refuse and strange manner of being on the Earth right now.

He remarked that everything in my cart was so healthy, and I, barely hearing him through his mask, heard “help me, please help me”, which was the true current which brought us both together. We stood there, as he started off the conversation with “Yo man, I know you probably got places to be but, can I just vent to you for a second?”. Shame and desperation shone deep in his beautiful human eyes, eyes set within a face which had no doubt seen deep pain.

The meat section flanked us to the right, the beer and cheese lay behind us, loud obnoxious music blared through the air of the hip and fast paced urban coop, as time stood still for a few brief moments while this human breathed deep and barred his troubles to me, a long haired stranger with a cart full of kale and bacon, eggs and spices. He lost his job. He has three kids and their mom isn’t around. He has a felony and can’t get benefits. His youngest son has crones disease and his oldest son is in a street gang. He looked at a homeless shelter for him and his young kids but there was human shit smeared over the walls and people yelling. His mother is coming up from Atlanta to help him but she won’t be there for a week. He needs $150 to cover the rent for the month and his landlord is freaking out. He hates asking for help and doesn’t want any “charity”. But he’s desperate.

His eyes told a story which may or may not be true. It doesn’t matter. We stared into each other’s eyes. All of my fears came writhing to the surface. Scarcity roared its deranged robotic head to the surface of my awareness, with its dead eyes and numb aching, cold fingers. My embedded racism and segregational inter-generational colonial framework became ever so sickeningly clear. I felt a sadness for my own illnesses and toxins still working within my being which keep me ever separated from the fullest potential of being human at this time, keep me unaligned from walking my deepest values in the most insidious of ways.

I took a few deep breathes and felt a deep sadness and compassion within my being as I beheld a man who, whether or not the story was true, was in a situation where he was asking for help.

And this is a beautiful and a sacred thing.

I know that there are many people, many of them my neighbors, who live in situations quite similar to this man’s. And as I saw out of the corner of my eye the security guard approaching us, I walked us quickly to the chip and “healthy” junk food isle and bore the contents of my wallet into his outstretched worn, calloused, and warm hands.

He could have then walked to the corner store and gone on a short vice rampage.

He could have had enough money to get a few decent meals for his kids.

It doesn’t matter.

What matters is that in his asking and in my giving, my humanity is warmed by the fire of our meeting, of his story, of the emotion and connection I felt to him and his being. He provided me something far more valuable than the inedible and barely burnable paper bills within my wallet: the opportunity to feel scarcity arise and to move through it and give something meaningful to another fellow human. This is the work of deconstructing the machine within me. This is part of my prayer of decolonization and of living an abundant and loving life.

There are many who think I naive for sharing in this way, that I am being taken advantage of by charlatans with their assortments of lies and false stories. I must disagree. I am making medicine together with those who are courageous enough to ask, shame and fatigue usually brimming close to the tears within their beautiful human eyes. They are me. And I respect their strength and humanity, even if they make a b-line to the liquor store.

I do not care.

I give spare change when I am asked as a way of providing myself with an opportunity to give and to move energy, to feel the warmth of generosity thaw the hardened scarcity complex which has been so deeply embedded within me as a citizen of a commodity economy which poisons every aspect of our humanity until we are left as cruel cyborgs unable to give nor receive. I reject this treadmill.

I pray we may burn down this false meritocratic colonial cowboy culture with the fires of our connection and the messy places we find ourselves in when we try our best to be honest and not hide. Yes, actually, I do have some spare change.

I am grateful for the man in the coop today, a bringer of medicine in a sick and forgetful time.

I pray for his wholeness and health, for his family, his community, and his relations and ancestry.

May we be well.

May we thrive as humans upon this paradise Earth.

May we hold each other and ask for help when we need it.

May we be whole.

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This is the container for the Written Word work of Restorative Ramblings, channeled and facilitated by the Father, Poet, Musician and Guide, Daniel Cherniske

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Restorative Ramblings

Restorative Ramblings

This is the container for the Written Word work of Restorative Ramblings, channeled and facilitated by the Father, Poet, Musician and Guide, Daniel Cherniske

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