TRIUMPH OF SPIRIT IN LOVE, NATURE & ART

Life in New York City

The ER

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Chest pain
shaky and
light in the head
go to bed
awaken
at 3 AM
pain in chest worse
down the arm
in the neck
nausea
to wake my husband
or not
decide not
decide to lie there
and see what happens
but first
write him a note
of my undying love
which he finds in the morning
when I am surprised
to find myself awake
husband says to the ER
NO
urgent care center
OKAY
doctor there says ER
despite finding a normal EKG
I say NO
husband says YES
another taxi
to hell
get sent to “geri”
and wait
sitting on top of
sick people
afraid husband
will catch something
I in tears with fears
of being in this
overcrowded, overheated,
festering inferno
with screams
in the background
a man lying on the floor
after an hour or so
can take no more
tell husband
LEAVING
he says
OKAY
even he is spooked
I will never go back
not there
and this supposed to be
an advanced country
how dare we look down
on the developing world
with our pants down.
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A Sign of Hope?

 

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This is a whale in the Hudson River in New York  City on the upper west side.  A friend sent the photo to me, suggesting it might be a sign of hope since we are all so desperate here now that Trump is President Elect.  I don’t know the source.  Pray it survives the pollution and gets back to salt water.

 


Street Life in New York City

Inspired by a post by Tiramit at Dhamma Footsteps

Have seen the plight of the working poor in India, especially working women in films like Ankur,” and in many other Indian films.  But it is not just India.  It is everywhere. And it is not just the working poor.

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The belongings of the first resident to set up camp near a seminary and a church

A block away from our apartment in New York City is a tiny campsite of homeless people. I think of them every morning at prayer. I wonder should I bring them food? Coffee? Meantime, in shame and shamefully, I cross the street to avoid walking into their bedroom. I feel for them especially when I am sick and think how horrible to be homeless when sick. But actually it is a daily horror.  Only a scaffolding protects against the elements, the heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter. And know I could be there, too, if not for the grace of God.  For these people are most likely unemployable.  Most likely they are mentally ill, like me, only unlike me, unable to work because they are untreated and homeless.  My husband, a retired psychiatric social worker had many homeless clients who could not work and could not get it together to get disability.  These clients spoke of the horrors of homeless shelters and explained how living in the streets is preferable.

The residents of this little homeless camp seek refuge and food in the church across the street. As they huddle in comforters in winter and on the sidewalk in summer, I ponder their lot in life while we have our little lives, wrapped in middle class comforts.

And in the United States we have a candidate who speaks to the rascist and xenophobic of our country.  To our shame to have even running.  But he also speaks to the working poor who are failing despite working one, two and three jobs, to the people who would despise the people down the block because the residents are not working.   And he promises his followers a better life.  And they believe his fantastic lies.  Such are among the many problems of having an underclass of the working poor.