"Sometimes journeys begin long before their first step is taken.”
Colin Thubron, To a Mountain in Tibet
I was 49 when I became homeless. I had been a college lecturer, I had a home, an income, everything you would expect from a middle-class professional. And then it all fell apart.
I was 49 when I became homeless. But in a sense, I had been homeless all my life. Wherever I was living, I had never felt secure or safe, somewhere where I could feel really comfortable or relaxed, amongst my own tribe, somewhere that felt like home. I lived in a permanent state of alert. I had this idea that I had to always be prepared for when someone would come and tell me I had to leave with just half an hour to pack. I would only be able to take what I could carry so I always kept a mental list of a few key items I needed to take with me. These sturdy boots, they would be excellent for walking long distances and I had to be prepared for that…this thick coat would be for when it got cold. The list would be constantly updated and rehearsed. I had to take only what was essential, but I mustn’t leave anything behind.
It made no sense, of course - I was not a refugee, I lived in a country that hadn’t faced the threat of invasion for over for 50 years. And yet it haunted me. My becoming homeless gave a reality what I had always felt inside. And so it also offered the chance of a healing, though of course most of the time I fought tooth and nail against the process.
A Voyage Begins...
One day, a small elastic band that I did not know even existed inside me, snapped. I began to fall, first inwardly, then outwardly. I was no longer able or even willing to cope. And as I fell, I wondered, as I had since I was a child, “If I fall, will someone catch me?”
I was about to find out.
I left my home and my job and began to wander. First, I stayed at a monastery, then a spiritual centre, before finally ending up in a Christian-run hostel for single homeless people. The hostel was situated on the edge of a council estate, near an industrial park and most fortunately a stretch of countryside including a small wood. It looked rather bleak from the outside and the room that was to be my home for the foreseeable future was bare and rather depressing. But John the manager was very kind and gave me new pillows and bed linen and did his best to make me feel welcome.
When I had got myself together sufficiently, I went downstairs and was introduced to my fellow residents who had gathered in the communal room for supper. They seemed friendly and I began to warm a little to my new home. In the weeks and months that followed I experienced all the different personalities. There was Richard the artist, whose fierce, striking looks concealed a very sensitive and creative soul. Des, the quiet, gentle man who was about to move on to a new home and start back at work. The only woman there was Charlotte - insightful, clever, caring and witty - but seemingly with very little self-worth. Finally there were the two Dans. Dan Furnwood, who had been particularly kind to me in the first few days, was a brilliant comic with a very dark, almost surreal sense of humour. Dan loved nature but was wary of humans whom he blamed for much of the earth’s troubles.
The other Dan was called by his surname, Mr Matheson. Ostensibly this was to distinguish him from Dan Furnwood but it also served to subtly distance him from the other housemates. Though he was usually friendly to chat to, he could be very antisocial - keeping people awake at nights being a particular issue. As I got to know him, his behaviour became more understandable if not more acceptable. He had spent some of his life in institutions where his extreme self-centredness had helped him survive the dog-eat-dog environment. Now it worked against him.
Our Spirituality, Your Religion.
Over the months Dan and I had taken to meditating after supper together. Using the simple technique of visualising white light, we worked first to bring peace and harmony to ourselves and then outwards to the planet. To this end we had got a map of the world which we mounted on a board and laminated. We each had a candle, which we lit and placed it on the part of the earth we wished especially to send healing to. It helped in our own healing by reminding us that we were part of a wider world and not just isolated and helpless beings with nothing to offer.
We were not alone in having our own sense of spirituality. Richard and Charlotte for their part were drawn to Native American wisdom. In this and other ways the house thus had a rich and varied spiritual life. It’s not that any of us were saints but we were exploring in our different ways our own path through the universe, trying to make sense of what was happening to us, giving meaning and purpose to our lives.
This was understood by the staff who worked directly with us. But to some in the wider charity, we seemed to be not really people but blank sheets of paper on which their Gospel message was to be written. Like 19th century missionaries bringing the Bible to the heathen in darkest Africa, their great goodwill and devotion to their work was matched only by their complete lack of understanding and respect.
This attitude came to a head at Christmas, when charity supporters had very kindly put together a bag full of goodies for each of us. Unfortunately someone decided to add a strident Evangelical tract to our presents which we supposed to digest with our Christmas meal. This was in fact not allowed by the charity, which though Christian, had given its workers strict instructions not to use their position to proselytise. Most of the residents simply binned the pamphlet and took the food, though one guy read it and said it was pretty heavy. I was so angry I refused the gifts and gave mine to another resident.
Yet my greatest spiritual challenge was yet to come.
By Simenon Honoré
You can read Part II: Discovery in the next Newsletter.
Names have been changed to protect the identities of the characters in the story.
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