...about a call for help and a travel to no expectations
“You are entitled to your actions, but not the fruit of your actions.”
Bhagavad Gita
It’s dark and it’s late for a week day. I’ve been cycling around with Porsha (yes, that’s name I've given my bike) and now I’m anchored at a traffic light in SoHo, waiting for it to turn green. Foot on the bike pedal, chest puffed, arms crossed - I’m feeling very Rock’n’Roll. The single ear bud is blasting “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC and I’m nodding to it rhythmically. An elderly gentleman suddenly runs towards me waving his arms.
“Miss! Miss! Could you spare a quarter? I want to buy a ticket home...”
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| Girl on the streets of New York paining a picture |
Here it is, the inevitable search for compassion that we’ve all encountered. The one that at times we would pass on and say “Sorry, man” simply because it's overwhelming by how many of these calls of desperation cross our path. It’s not difficult to see desperation's face on the streets. It’s pushing a cart full of leftovers, it’s dragging an old suitcase and a sleeping bag, it’s digging through the trash or it's waiting by the sidewalk humbly displaying an “I need a miracle” sign. More often than not, I will walk by, because I feel this heavy face leaning onto my shoulder too closely. “My quarter won’t change a thing” I will say to myself or exercise fast judgement “He will buy booze with the money, not a ticket or food”.
I find speaking or writing about this loaded topic difficult, and I hardly feel qualified to suggest any "smart" solutions. However, the gentleman’s question left a very personal impression on me. It made me realize a couple of things. First, Holy Shit, my brain is so cluttered, where did that chain of thoughts come from, I was cycling 2 minutes ago?? Second, I’ve just labeled someone desperate, without knowing anything about him or about the reasons of his inquiry. I’ve done it just because he asked me for a little bit of money. Third, I’ve also selfishly put an expectation on him - he can only receive my compassion, if he complies with what the money will be spent for. This is not a glorious moment for my philanthropy oriented, yoga infused, well read, kittens hugging side (that I think I posses for the most part, especially when overdosing on spiritual Instagram posts).
I’m thinking about this predisposition for judgement. It’s a shield against what I consider hurtful and difficult to change in the world. But why do I need to exercise the right to say how my good deed is spent? Does it matter whether it’s food, booze or something else, as long as it grants him a little bit of happiness? And is it really pain I’m letting into my life by helping him, especially if I CAN share that quarter? (The rhetorical function of these questions has been added to spare the writer spelling out the answers). I challenge myself to take a leap tonight against this psycho wave of thoughts and just do something for a stranger, without putting expectations on him.
There’s barely anyone else passing by the lonesome SoHo alley. The light turns green, but I hold the eager Porsha still and check the contents of my wallet. It contains a single $2 dollar bill and nothing else. I pull it out and hand it over to the gentleman.
“There you go, I hope it helps, sir” I say to him.
He looks at me wide eyed and presses his hands into a prayer as he channels a full hearted “Thank you!” my way, adding a loud: “I love you, Miss!” proclamation.
I cycle off with a smile. Maybe he won’t buy a ticket home or perhaps he will. But why should I care? I set something in motion by handing my last $2 dollars, irrelevant if it will be classified as good or bad in the order of the world. Tonight it brought me an “I love you” as a sign of gratitude. And "I love you" is always good to hear, even from an absolute stranger.
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