Reporting from the Roof: Day 3 Begins

Nasha & Cindy by the pantry door

It is the second morning I have noticed them… but then, this is only my second morning sleeping on the roof of the old DI. What I notice is the sound of birds. Little tweets and twitters emanating from under the roof of the loading dock which is directly below the roof where we are camped out. Little birds determined to be noticed. Determined to be heard. I noticed them yesterday. Happy little tweets that sound so out of place amidst the hum of the equipment on the roof, the traffic moving by, the voices of people on the smoke deck. The continuous noise all around the shelter located at the edge of the downtown core of Calgary.

Noise.

There’s lots of it here up on the roof. And my earplugs have once again become my new best friends in the night.

I am grateful this morning for a good night’s sleep. I find it surprising — how well I’ve slept up here. Sure, there are intermittent moments of wakefulness, brief segments of time where I stir awake, like when my tent mate Dave gets up in the middle of the night to use the facilities.

I’m getting smarter — in just two days! I remember to not close the pantry door through which we enter the kitchen when I get up to use the washroom during the night. The first night, I discovered the hard way that you can open the pantry door from the inside — but not from the other side. I’d left my access card in the tent and there I was, in the kitchen, in the night, with no power to open the door. I pondered my predicament. Laughed at myself and the circumstances — the double doors from the kitchen to the second floor area where about 100 people were sleeping were followed by a corridor with another set of doors to navigate before opening onto the floor area where staff would be able to help me — both sets of which were locked. And then I remembered the phone outside the kitchen office. I called down to security and was quickly released from my predicament back to the roof.

It was a better night last night. My body is becoming accustomed to the mat and the environment. I feel less exposed, less out of place.

And yes, gratitude is deepening. As is an appreciation of what people endure who really are roughing it in the night.

It is not easy.

It is not fun.

Cindy peeking into our tent.

For those who really are sleeping rough, it can be a matter of life and death.

Have you found a secluded enough spot that no one will find you? No one being not just law officials looking to roust you or well-intended social workers hoping to help but also — or maybe mostly — other people looking to do you harm and/or take what you’ve got.

Will the weather turn during the night? Will you be warm enough? What if something happens? Will anyone find you? Will anyone know what happened to you? Will anyone care?

A view of Downtown Calgary from our tent.

Will anyone care. One of the toughest fears.

Who will care that I’m here?

Who will care if I’m gone?

The challenge of homelessness. Taking care of yourself even when you fear nobody cares.

I see that here a lot — the fear that nobody cares. The fear that my life means nothing and so I may as well just keep going on the path I’m on, no matter how destructive, no matter where it leads.

And still the will to live, the human spirit’s drive to stay alive keeps pushing, keeps pulling people forward.

Driven by fear, drawn by courage to stay alive.

People often comment that working at a shelter must be depressing.

I always reply, no. It’s one of the most inspiring places I’ve ever worked. Every morning, people get up. People who’s lives have taken twists and turns and brought them down to places I could never imagine. Yet, every morning they get up and take another step. They continue to keep living, to keep pushing forward, no matter the circumstances of their lives.

I wonder if that courage is within me. To keep getting up no matter how far or hard life has pushed me down.

Working here has taught me so much about being human. About our shared human condition.

And more than anything, it has taught me to revere life. My life. The lives of everyone around me.

It is a sacred journey, this thing called life.

And no matter our condition, it is a journey we share. A journey we must live, one step at a time, hoping, praying, believing when we step in the wrong direction, when we stray onto a path that could harm us, someone will be there to care.

Thank you for you caring enough to share your time, talents and treasures. You are making a difference. If you’d like to help out, please visit:  http://www.thedi.ca/donate/donate-online/  No matter what you share, the value of your sharing makes a difference. And together, we can bring people in off the streets to a place where people matter.