National Alliance to End Homelessness: Data + Research: State by State Data
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Your Quiet Place
13 hours ago
Monday, August 17, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A heart for the abandoned
Time to be serious for a second, and speak (type) "outloud" about something that's pulling at me as of late.
The Abandoned. The Lost.
Homeless. Aborted babies. Foster-children. Mothers-to-be with no family, no support system. Troubled children who have no life-line. Homeless families. Missing children (not abandoned, but still..lost). Orphans. Vets who society has forgotten or ignored.
First and foremost in my mind, and on my heart, is the homeless. I can't tell you how many times I have walked by, ignoring the quiet, percievingly pestering, plea for spare change. I shake my head no, without even the courtesy of eye-contact. Shame on me. I drive, every day, past a man on a corner, begging for food, money or work. My heart has, over the years, become hard to them...looking down on them as the heel of society. The Lazy. The Drunk Lazy. The Dirty. The Dirty, No-good, Drunk Lazy.
I have forgotten, somewhere, somehow, that they are someone's child. They are someone's brother, sister...maybe even someone's mother or father. They have feelings, dreams, desires. They once had a bed to sleep in, clean clothes to wear. They may have served our country in days gone by. They may have mental disabilities that prevent them from defying the street-life. They probably loved, once or twice. They aren't just some nameless face on the street sitting in filth. They are someone.
I have resurrected a little idea I had a few years back, and have been mulling it over in my mind for the last few days. Just throwing it out into cyber space, hoping it sticks in someone's heart as well.
I would like to take my camera and document the local homeless. On a larger scale, I'd go to NYC or San Fransisco, or LA....maybe even to another country. But, my dreams are small & I have my own finanial & mommyish obligations, so I'll start here in Syracuse. I'd like to sit with them, listen to them, photograph them. I'd like for them to feel heard, seen, and cared for. I want to earn thier trust, and touch thier lives in some small, but positive way. I can envision turning thier stories into a coffee-table book. Not sure who would want to buy it, so perhaps that's not the "right" vision..but still. I want to go back to them, give them thier picture, let them see how beautiful they are, even on the streets. I want them to know they matter.
I may start a blog, if I turn this idea into reality, to document the journey. I honestly don't know the legal ins-n-outs of posting pictures of people that most of America would rather not see. But, if a book isn't a good idea, perhaps a simple blog is. I don't intend to become an activist, or dedicate my life to "missions work". I just want to follow my heart and see where it leads. Right now, it's dragging me in this direction.
I also did a little (5 minutes worth) of research, and found that in 2007 (most recent statistics I found), there were 120,000+ abortions in my state alone. Staggering. Heart-breaking. Would-be doctors, lawyers, mothers, fathers, bloggers, dancers, writers..maybe even a future president. Gone. Murdered. Abandoned in the most concrete & final way possible. Again, not looking to be an activist. Not looking to get arrested by doing a sit in. Instead, looking for a avenue to reach out, save a life, maybe two. Looking for the direction God wants to pull my heart in.
I did a little more research, and found that the local rescue mission & Salvation Army have programs that reach out to both the homeless & single mothers/mothers-to-be. Common knowledge to most, I'm sure..but sadly, I've been oblivious...at least to the programs that are available. Apartments made available to single moms who need a place to learn how to support themselves. A van that visits the homeless and takes them to doctor appointments if needed. Various types of outreaches that I'm so glad already exist, despite people that are blind by choice, like me.
I have eaten in a soup kitchen. I have taken my children to one so they could eat. That was many years ago, and I'm grateful for the changes that have been made in me, and my life so I no longer have to do that. But, I am strongly considering doing it anyway. It's time to open my eyes. It's time to make the abandoned feel a little less so. It's time to act, instead of wishing someone else would do it for me. It's time to resurrect the compasion, the understanding, and make a difference, even if it's throwing a pebble into the ocean.
The Abandoned. The Lost.
Homeless. Aborted babies. Foster-children. Mothers-to-be with no family, no support system. Troubled children who have no life-line. Homeless families. Missing children (not abandoned, but still..lost). Orphans. Vets who society has forgotten or ignored.
First and foremost in my mind, and on my heart, is the homeless. I can't tell you how many times I have walked by, ignoring the quiet, percievingly pestering, plea for spare change. I shake my head no, without even the courtesy of eye-contact. Shame on me. I drive, every day, past a man on a corner, begging for food, money or work. My heart has, over the years, become hard to them...looking down on them as the heel of society. The Lazy. The Drunk Lazy. The Dirty. The Dirty, No-good, Drunk Lazy.
I have forgotten, somewhere, somehow, that they are someone's child. They are someone's brother, sister...maybe even someone's mother or father. They have feelings, dreams, desires. They once had a bed to sleep in, clean clothes to wear. They may have served our country in days gone by. They may have mental disabilities that prevent them from defying the street-life. They probably loved, once or twice. They aren't just some nameless face on the street sitting in filth. They are someone.
I have resurrected a little idea I had a few years back, and have been mulling it over in my mind for the last few days. Just throwing it out into cyber space, hoping it sticks in someone's heart as well.
I would like to take my camera and document the local homeless. On a larger scale, I'd go to NYC or San Fransisco, or LA....maybe even to another country. But, my dreams are small & I have my own finanial & mommyish obligations, so I'll start here in Syracuse. I'd like to sit with them, listen to them, photograph them. I'd like for them to feel heard, seen, and cared for. I want to earn thier trust, and touch thier lives in some small, but positive way. I can envision turning thier stories into a coffee-table book. Not sure who would want to buy it, so perhaps that's not the "right" vision..but still. I want to go back to them, give them thier picture, let them see how beautiful they are, even on the streets. I want them to know they matter.
I may start a blog, if I turn this idea into reality, to document the journey. I honestly don't know the legal ins-n-outs of posting pictures of people that most of America would rather not see. But, if a book isn't a good idea, perhaps a simple blog is. I don't intend to become an activist, or dedicate my life to "missions work". I just want to follow my heart and see where it leads. Right now, it's dragging me in this direction.
I also did a little (5 minutes worth) of research, and found that in 2007 (most recent statistics I found), there were 120,000+ abortions in my state alone. Staggering. Heart-breaking. Would-be doctors, lawyers, mothers, fathers, bloggers, dancers, writers..maybe even a future president. Gone. Murdered. Abandoned in the most concrete & final way possible. Again, not looking to be an activist. Not looking to get arrested by doing a sit in. Instead, looking for a avenue to reach out, save a life, maybe two. Looking for the direction God wants to pull my heart in.
I did a little more research, and found that the local rescue mission & Salvation Army have programs that reach out to both the homeless & single mothers/mothers-to-be. Common knowledge to most, I'm sure..but sadly, I've been oblivious...at least to the programs that are available. Apartments made available to single moms who need a place to learn how to support themselves. A van that visits the homeless and takes them to doctor appointments if needed. Various types of outreaches that I'm so glad already exist, despite people that are blind by choice, like me.
I have eaten in a soup kitchen. I have taken my children to one so they could eat. That was many years ago, and I'm grateful for the changes that have been made in me, and my life so I no longer have to do that. But, I am strongly considering doing it anyway. It's time to open my eyes. It's time to make the abandoned feel a little less so. It's time to act, instead of wishing someone else would do it for me. It's time to resurrect the compasion, the understanding, and make a difference, even if it's throwing a pebble into the ocean.
Pickles 'n Chocolate Popsicles
I discovered yesterday why I have never seen a pickle-scented candle, air-freshener or sache in my entire adult life. Pickle smell permeating your home is, well.... gross.
I was reminded that pickle-scented scratch-n-sniff stickers used to exist, which threw me back to the days when slightly textured sticky circles of cheesy pictures representing a pretty bad scent-replica where all the rage. I mean, it was sooo exciting to go to the store and get these little stickers. You'd compare with your friends.... "Oh, Sally! You have a Chocolate Popsicle one?!?! That's not FAIR! All I have is this Strawberry-banana-milkshake one....Mom said I couldn't get anymore today 'cuz my Smurf lunchbox is almost full and she's sick of peeling them off the kitchen floor. Lemme smell *that* one!"
Sniff, sniff, sniff till you could sniff no more. It was like Crack For Kids. But, let's be honest for a minute. Did they ever *really* smell like the picture? Hmm...Yea, I didn't think so.
Anyway...before I started down this little blast-from-the-past memory, I was going to tell you why, exactly, pickles should never be a flavor of the month for Yankee Candles..
My inlaws bought a huge, and I *do* mean HUGE, glass jar of dill pickles. My daughter insisted that we all "just looooovvvvvveeeeeee" pickles, and we had to have *that* jar full. So, they bought it. (And here's where I express my genuine thanks for all they *have* done for our family... but beg for forgiveness if I'm not particularly grateful for this pickle jar.)
Months later, said pickle jar is still lurking in the back of my fridge. We're talking a 2 gallon-ish sized jar. Half full of sticky, smelly pickle juice. Oh, and about 12 whole dill pickles that wish someone, ANYONE, would eat them...
I went to the grocery store, and spent roughly a week's pay on groceries (another interesting experience with four children, two carts and no dinner beforehand...). Got home, and determined that the pickle jar had to go. I mean, there's only so much room in my side-by-side fridge, and the kids all wanted to open a different flavor of Hawaiian Punch...(green, orange, red..) So, the wierd-colored-juice-wannabe-sugar-water won the battle, and the pickles lost thier spot. They sat on my dishwasher overnight... (yes, my mistake...)
Yesterday, I'm doing the good little mom thing...sweeping the kitchen, vaccumming floors, etc etc, yada yada.. Almost done, and soooooo thankful because it was a sweltering day. Kitchen was all cleaned up. I had one room left to vaccum.
CRASH!
I wish I could explain the immediate stench. I promptly picked up my almost-3 yr old from the midst of the glass shards and 1/4 inch deep pickle juice. Rinsed his feet off in the kitchen sink, looking for glass, blood..all the good stuff. He's ok? Great! Remove him from the room, with stern instruction to him and his almost-4 yr old brother to stay OUT of the kitchen. Turn to survey the flood..I mean, mess.
Pickle juice splattered down the side of my dishwasher. Pooled in puddle-deep pools in at last 3 spots that I can see immediately. Finely misted over the entirety of my kitchen floor. Mixed in with various sizes of glass shards (which, by the way, glint quite nicely when covered in pickled cucumber juice..).
I won't bore you with the details anymore then I already have. Let's just say that it took one pretty large piece of glass stuck in my finger, a paper towel to stop the bleeding, 4 bath towels to sop up juice, a broom & dustpan, Dawn, a washcloth, and about an hour for me to clean it up. Oh, and a few microscopic shards in my knee I discovered after the fact...this was about the time I got pretty angry at myself for always prefering to hand-wash floors and not investing in a freakin' MOP! I literally had sweat dripping off my nose...and teeny tiny deadly pieces of glass plastered in my sweaty skin.. I'm pretty sure it was like 84 degrees in my kitchen.
Almost 24 hours later, I still smell dill wafting through the air every so often...
I was reminded that pickle-scented scratch-n-sniff stickers used to exist, which threw me back to the days when slightly textured sticky circles of cheesy pictures representing a pretty bad scent-replica where all the rage. I mean, it was sooo exciting to go to the store and get these little stickers. You'd compare with your friends.... "Oh, Sally! You have a Chocolate Popsicle one?!?! That's not FAIR! All I have is this Strawberry-banana-milkshake one....Mom said I couldn't get anymore today 'cuz my Smurf lunchbox is almost full and she's sick of peeling them off the kitchen floor. Lemme smell *that* one!"
Sniff, sniff, sniff till you could sniff no more. It was like Crack For Kids. But, let's be honest for a minute. Did they ever *really* smell like the picture? Hmm...Yea, I didn't think so.
Anyway...before I started down this little blast-from-the-past memory, I was going to tell you why, exactly, pickles should never be a flavor of the month for Yankee Candles..
My inlaws bought a huge, and I *do* mean HUGE, glass jar of dill pickles. My daughter insisted that we all "just looooovvvvvveeeeeee" pickles, and we had to have *that* jar full. So, they bought it. (And here's where I express my genuine thanks for all they *have* done for our family... but beg for forgiveness if I'm not particularly grateful for this pickle jar.)
Months later, said pickle jar is still lurking in the back of my fridge. We're talking a 2 gallon-ish sized jar. Half full of sticky, smelly pickle juice. Oh, and about 12 whole dill pickles that wish someone, ANYONE, would eat them...
I went to the grocery store, and spent roughly a week's pay on groceries (another interesting experience with four children, two carts and no dinner beforehand...). Got home, and determined that the pickle jar had to go. I mean, there's only so much room in my side-by-side fridge, and the kids all wanted to open a different flavor of Hawaiian Punch...(green, orange, red..) So, the wierd-colored-juice-wannabe-sugar-water won the battle, and the pickles lost thier spot. They sat on my dishwasher overnight... (yes, my mistake...)
Yesterday, I'm doing the good little mom thing...sweeping the kitchen, vaccumming floors, etc etc, yada yada.. Almost done, and soooooo thankful because it was a sweltering day. Kitchen was all cleaned up. I had one room left to vaccum.
CRASH!
I wish I could explain the immediate stench. I promptly picked up my almost-3 yr old from the midst of the glass shards and 1/4 inch deep pickle juice. Rinsed his feet off in the kitchen sink, looking for glass, blood..all the good stuff. He's ok? Great! Remove him from the room, with stern instruction to him and his almost-4 yr old brother to stay OUT of the kitchen. Turn to survey the flood..I mean, mess.
Pickle juice splattered down the side of my dishwasher. Pooled in puddle-deep pools in at last 3 spots that I can see immediately. Finely misted over the entirety of my kitchen floor. Mixed in with various sizes of glass shards (which, by the way, glint quite nicely when covered in pickled cucumber juice..).
I won't bore you with the details anymore then I already have. Let's just say that it took one pretty large piece of glass stuck in my finger, a paper towel to stop the bleeding, 4 bath towels to sop up juice, a broom & dustpan, Dawn, a washcloth, and about an hour for me to clean it up. Oh, and a few microscopic shards in my knee I discovered after the fact...this was about the time I got pretty angry at myself for always prefering to hand-wash floors and not investing in a freakin' MOP! I literally had sweat dripping off my nose...and teeny tiny deadly pieces of glass plastered in my sweaty skin.. I'm pretty sure it was like 84 degrees in my kitchen.
Almost 24 hours later, I still smell dill wafting through the air every so often...
If you'd like to recreate my experience... grab a few nosey, rambunctious boys between the ages of 2 & 4, get yourself a tropical heat blasting machine, and buy one of these:
(yea, I had to google..and I'm sad to admit I was wrong..they *do* exist... sigh)
Moral of the story?
Don't allow your inlaws to buy you pickles.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Daily Quote
"When we are alone on a starlit night, when by chance we see the migrating birds in autumn descending on a grove of junipers to rest and eat; when we see children in a moment when they are really children, when we know love in our own hearts; or when, like the Japanese poet, Basho, we hear an old frog land in a quiet pond with a solitary splash - at such times the awakening, the turning inside out of all values, the "newness," the emptiness and the purity of vision that make themselves evident, all these provide a glimpse of the cosmic dance."~ Thomas Merton
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Fear
I know a man who's afraid. Afraid of failing, of changing, of accepting who he is and what he lacks. Afraid to be the man I know he's capable of. Afraid to even try, lest it mean admitting he's wrong.
And his life, as he knows it, is slowly melting away, into darkness, lonely solitude.
This woman I know, she has given it her all. She has cried, begged, loved. She has embraced & helped. She has pushed away. She has shown forgiveness, compassion, passion. Her heart has been broken, scooped up and glued back together. She has held on so long her hands are bleeding, and her breath is shallow.
She is beginning to see that life, yes..life..is so much more then what we, as fearful mortals, settle for. This woman loves her husband, yet she's increasingly aware that love is dragging her backwards.....back towards the life she is trying to leave behind.
The man I know, he is capable of things, things he doesn't even realize. Good, beautiful things. And yet...fear.
His wife has left him, or rather, made him leave her. She has since poured her heart out to him, as in years past, in futile attempts to "get through" to him. She has journeyed her own path of pain, solitude and facing fears...in the very midst of it, as we speak. Would he join her on this journey? Her heart would sing. Alas... fear.
The woman who's loved him all these years is changing, growing, blossoming. He's afraid to watch. Drawn to her like a moth to a flame, because he likes what he sees, craves it, for himself... then pushes it away, as a non-obtainable vision. She scares him. Her new, life-filled reality, it scares him.
The man I know, has chosen to remain in fear, because chosing to let it go means facing it. Vicious cycle, it is. Be afraid, chose to stay afraid because you are afraid of the outcome. Never feel emotions, because emotions are scary... they are REAL, and real is terrifying. Afraid of being alone, yet finding yourself alone.. the unavoidable fallout of your fear-based non actions. You drive people away from you, because you are not able to let them close.
Ahh, for the love of a woman. Once upon a time, I believed that a man would do anything, face anything, for the return of his affection towards that one special woman. Now, I know certain things stand in the way... well, one thing.
Fear.
And his life, as he knows it, is slowly melting away, into darkness, lonely solitude.
This woman I know, she has given it her all. She has cried, begged, loved. She has embraced & helped. She has pushed away. She has shown forgiveness, compassion, passion. Her heart has been broken, scooped up and glued back together. She has held on so long her hands are bleeding, and her breath is shallow.
She is beginning to see that life, yes..life..is so much more then what we, as fearful mortals, settle for. This woman loves her husband, yet she's increasingly aware that love is dragging her backwards.....back towards the life she is trying to leave behind.
The man I know, he is capable of things, things he doesn't even realize. Good, beautiful things. And yet...fear.
His wife has left him, or rather, made him leave her. She has since poured her heart out to him, as in years past, in futile attempts to "get through" to him. She has journeyed her own path of pain, solitude and facing fears...in the very midst of it, as we speak. Would he join her on this journey? Her heart would sing. Alas... fear.
The woman who's loved him all these years is changing, growing, blossoming. He's afraid to watch. Drawn to her like a moth to a flame, because he likes what he sees, craves it, for himself... then pushes it away, as a non-obtainable vision. She scares him. Her new, life-filled reality, it scares him.
The man I know, has chosen to remain in fear, because chosing to let it go means facing it. Vicious cycle, it is. Be afraid, chose to stay afraid because you are afraid of the outcome. Never feel emotions, because emotions are scary... they are REAL, and real is terrifying. Afraid of being alone, yet finding yourself alone.. the unavoidable fallout of your fear-based non actions. You drive people away from you, because you are not able to let them close.
Ahh, for the love of a woman. Once upon a time, I believed that a man would do anything, face anything, for the return of his affection towards that one special woman. Now, I know certain things stand in the way... well, one thing.
Fear.
Daily Quotes
When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.— Victor Frankl
Even though you may want to move forward in your life, you may have one foot on the brakes. In order to be free, we must learn how to let go. Release the hurt. Release the fear. Refuse to entertain your old pain. The energy it takes to hang onto the past is holding you back from a new life. What is it you would let go of today?— Mary Manin Morrissey
Even though you may want to move forward in your life, you may have one foot on the brakes. In order to be free, we must learn how to let go. Release the hurt. Release the fear. Refuse to entertain your old pain. The energy it takes to hang onto the past is holding you back from a new life. What is it you would let go of today?— Mary Manin Morrissey
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