Breathe.
Easier said than done when your heart is filled with trepidation; when every thing you have worked for has vaporized and there is no job, no hope of earning enough to pay the mortgage and are facing foreclosure. I know three women, ages 40 or over, that are dealing with this.
Last week, a neighbor was evicted from her home of 35 years. She is mentally ill, not adequately medicated, and is a “revolving door patient”—difficult for her family and professionals to manage. She was out in the driveway, muttering and weeping to herself as she attempted to sort the piles that the eviction moving team had left of her home. Here were her bookcases, there were her clothes, and somewhere in the maelstrom was the food from her cupboards. We tried to usher her into a local shelter, but she announced that she was going to sleep out there to keep away the thieves. I watched her make a nest in the laundry as her cats curled up beside her.
Every homeless woman, man, child, or family starts this way—evicted, alone, stuff in piles and no where to go, no more medication or resources to call upon. This was quite frightening to me. “But for the Grace of God went I” or every other person I have met this year at the Larimer County Workforce Center classes.
Breathe. Try to remember that you are working, that you are helping friends every way you can with job leads and supportive conversation. Hope will prevail. But, breathing in the face of that woman’s hopelessness is hard.
She eventually rounded up the most dear treasures and staples, and left the rest on the driveway. Yesterday, the bank sent another crew to pick it all up and put the dregs into a bin. She was not there; I truly don’t know where she is. Somewhere…in Loveland. Starting over? Alone, dying? Frightened? Mad? Drenched? Hurt? Homeless.
I find myself breathing, with tears streaming down my face.
Breathe. Cry awhile. Breathe, again.
