twenty five.

i loved that caroline gave me clip on holiday earings. i loved that folks made a special point to call. i loved that mom's russian tea tasted like christmas. i loved that fawn made too much fry bread. i loved that leah magically salvaged my humble attempt at grandma's red velvet cake. i loved that so many friends filled our tiny living room with conversation and laughter. i loved that people contributed foods that were meaningful in their lives. i loved that there was enough for everyone. i loved that folks brought guitars and harmonicas. i loved that people donated gifts for the shelter. i loved that friends knew me well enough to bring homemade and thrift shop gifts as well. i loved that now mukluk has his very own christmas ornament. i loved that i felt loved.

but what really made my birthday. was when we brought leftovers to the shelter. and we figured out that it was one of the guests' birthday too. and she declared me her "birthday twin." with multiple hugs. and we sang a cheerful "happy birthday to us." and there was shared experience. and joy. and it somehow completed the day.

and although this year promises much uncertainty at the moment. i celebrate it. i welcome it. i wait and see. i listen. i wonder. just what will be.

hope.

neither one of us expected it to be on the front page. in the sunday paper at that. but there it was. in black and white. the reality of it all. spoken plainly. and he seemed rather overwhelmed. but said maybe, just maybe someone will wake up. people need to know. homelessness exists here. but it exists everywhere. and people's eyes need to be opened.

and he was so brave to talk to that reporter. to share his voice. his story. but now he seems apprehensive. of what others may think. or say. but mostly. folks around here tell him he did a good job. that they are proud of him.

and then we imagined. what if there was a part two. a sequel to the story. that his situation changed. for the better.

he said he was tired of all of this. and ready to try again. for something different. for something more. and i said that story would certainly be worthy of front page news again. even though we agreed neither one of us are front page news kind of people.

but we determined it was worth a try.

and something like hope surrounded us in that moment. as we concluded something good will come out of this. it must.

human.

"god bless you of so kind heart. you make us feel human."

this is what one of the guests at the shelter wrote on a thank you card tonight.

you make us feel human. the phrase continues echoing in my head. in rhythm with the quiet snores of folks sleeping. and what does it mean to feel human? and what does it mean to not feel human?

feeling human seems to connotate dignity. and honour. and recognition. of being a person of worth. of value. and not feeling human... that seems to imply the opposite.

and the idea that i might be a small part of someone feeling human brings hope. its all i really want to be a part of. honouring. and listening. and loving. and the idea of people facing situations where they feel less than human. is. well, more terrible than words.

so open our eyes to our common humanity. that we might see each other. really see each other. hear each other. truly hear each other. to recognize one another. as people. simply people. worthy of love. worthy of grace. worthy of hope.

remembering.

my heart had been forgetting. amidst overflowing calendars. and incomplete to do lists. and moving in too many directions. and thinking in too many directions. and continual feelings of inadequacy. and uncertainty.

my heart had been forgetting. amidst abstract words. and talking in circles. about issues. and causes. and ideas. and growing overwhelmed by the scope of it all.

my heart had been forgetting. how to be present. how to be still. how to listen.

my heart had been forgetting. until the first folks walked in the shelter this evening. one who brought his large print harry potter book that he found at the thrift shop. one who always seems overjoyed to see me but can never remember my name. one who looked so relieved to be in from the cold. one who wandered in at three in the morning. with no where else to go. postponing sleep for a little conversation. for a chance to be heard.

and amidst the cold frigid temperatures outside. my heart was strangely warmed. and began to remember.

and something like thankfulness. and something like hope. and something like passion. began to stir again.

names.

my hasty footsteps cross paths with his. he smiles. and joyfully shouts out. abigail or abby? do you go by abigail or abby?

i slow down my hurried feet. and pause in the middle of the vacant street. either one. i'll answer to either one. you've got a good memory, you know.

i always remember names. went into the hospital the other day. said hello to doctor so and so. and he was surprised i remembered his name. from when i went to see him four years ago. yep. i remember names.

well i'm not always as good with names as you are. and i'm sorry but i've forgotten yours.

well its written on one of your cards up there at the food bank.

hmm. yes. but i've still forgotten. and i'm sorry.

its robert. most people call me robert. except this one lady who calls me stanley. that's my middle name. she says i look like a stanley.

robert. i'll try to remember that now.

a few more words exchanged. laughter. smiles. and our paths part ways.

and i found the folder of papers from the shelter this past winter. forms and signatures and lists of names. of people that needed a safe place to stay. of people that told their stories over cup-o-noodles and hot cocoa and went back out into the cold the next morning. of people that we can add into numbers. to say how many guests came. to put in our brochure.

and i have to start making case files with notes. about children. and families. about successes and struggles. about progress. and setbacks. and keep them in a special file drawer. except i don't even get to use names. just initials.

and i sit in a class. where we talk about people far away. people whose daily lives know tension. and fear. and violence. and war. and there's a picture of children. growing up amidst it all. and those children have names. and there's a picture of soliders on the other side. living amidst it all. and those soldiers have names. and they remind us of the humanity of it all. of these issues that we comfortably sit around talking about. drinking our decaf coffee. munching our organic fig bars.

names. records of names. food bank cards. shelter rosters. case files. newspapers. and so many unnamed. each a person. a life. a story. oh that we may come to love each other. to honour each other. to truly see each other. for who we are. for the depth that we are. beyond these flat records of names.

snowflakes fall in the september breeze.

28th september. this is what our eyes saw. as we awoke to greet the day.

villages.

sometimes i wonder. if the order of this journey had been rearranged. how i might see this place. this moment. differently. if i might feel more immersed. more connected. if i had first headed north.

but instead. my feet traveled south. my heart followed. and my eyes were changed. for good.

and it took time of course. everything takes time. but people took me in. showed me how to live. allowed me to be a part of their village. a part of their family. a part of their lives. so something in me still yearns for that. a sense of belonging. amidst vibrant culture. amidst authentic community.

and i have been welcomed where i am. and i do live in a close community. and i have had opportunities to be amidst beautiful culture. but its just different. and somedays i feel more of an observer than a participant.

and while i adore this little town. something in me has longed to experience village life. anticipating a deeper cultural immersion. a retreat to simplicity. to subsistence. to roots.

only one of the surrounding villages is accessible by the road system. and the "work" i'm involved in is solely based in town. so. i haven't had opportunity to visit a village until just recently. when a bus full of elders and i ventured to teller for the annual cultural festival.

and we saw hours and hours of eskimo dancing. four different villages represented. beautifully intergenerational. with songs and drumming and movement flowing from somewhere deep within. connecting with sometime not so long ago. invitational dances. welcoming all. celebratory images of unity. of togetherness. across villages.

and we ate ekimo food of dried fish. and greens. and muktuk. and beluga. and we discovered cranberries ripe for picking. and we walked along the musical beach to see brevig mission across the water. and we saw cousins and aunties and uncles reunite. and we watched a community come together to support one another amidst struggles and questions. and we felt welcomed. and taken care of. and joyful.

and it was a fleeting glimpse. of a village. that is less isolated than most. during a special gathering. and i offer thanks for the visit. for a new place for my eyes to take in. knowing my perspective. my understanding. is terribly limited. and there are depths and dimensions of that place. of everyday life. that i cannot grasp at the moment. for i've only briefly observed. i haven't fully participated.

and i hope in a place. where i might be wholly immersed. amidst the reality of a place. amidst the struggles. the joys. of people. to celebrate. to honour. to live. to share. to love. and perhaps that place. is the very place i am in. in this moment if only my eyes might open up.