Help! I am suffering from an acute case of claustrophobia.
After two months in Panama, staying in a small but comfortable one-bedroom casita, I kind of got used to spreading out, easily finding a place for our stuff, taking advantage of our patio view of the Bay of Panama and having plenty of options for alone time. We had room! And…rooms!
For many of you, this little home in Panama would be a challenge. But for me, used to living on a tiny sailboat in Ballard that I share with my retired husband and adult daughter, it was pure luxury.
I could do yoga anywhere I felt like it without smacking my hands on the ceiling during a warrior pose. I had a private space to write that did not require earplugs and blinders. I could have friends over and not have to rearrange everything in the dang house so they could sit down. I had room to breathe and move and write, and I loved it.
Boat life has its clear positives. Lack of belongings, for me, equals lack of chaos. The marina community is solid and consists of interesting, good people. And the proximity to nature is a major plus. Not to mention the major “cool” points we have earned with our kids’ friends.
As a writer, the main challenges are alone time and space for working. Sometimes, I write at home (see earplugs and blinders, above), but often, I go to coffee shops, libraries, friends’ kitchen tables and grocery stores with food courts.
A ‘simple refuge’
I was sitting in one of those food courts at a large store in Ballard. At first, it was just me and a couple of employees on break. But gradually, on this sunny but cold winter day, the place began to fill up with folks who settled in and stayed for a long time. Poor people. Homeless people I recognized, having seen them camped in doorways at night in Ballard.
They sat reading the paper, drinking coffee, visiting with one another. One guy, wearing many layers of clothing, was eating out of a tin can. Another, a man with long hair and a beard covering his gaunt face, had the newspaper spread out on the table in front of him.
The place is warm, dry and safe. There is a microwave, napkins, utensils and other people — people who clearly know one another and keep each other company. It’s a sub-community, I began to realize, of people who exist below the surface and help each other survive. They are quiet, respectful, appropriate and, it seems, grateful for a place to pass some of the day and to rest up for the long night to come. Thank goodness, these folks have this simple refuge.
Looking down on the store, I saw massive amounts of food. Shoppers were pushing super-sized carts filled to overflowing with merchandise. How ironic it seemed to me, this juxtaposition of excess and want. I fantasized about going down and buying hot food, bringing it upstairs, setting it up buffet-style and serving it to these poor people.
Imagine: You don’t have a place to sleep. You don’t have a kitchen. You don’t have transportation. When it’s cold outside, most of us rush from our homes to our car to the store and back again. What if you didn’t have a home or a car or a store to shop in? How can this be? How is it that our government spent months arguing over the “fiscal cliff?” What does that even mean?
Why are we not spending our time, intelligence and resources helping people sitting a table away to get their feet on the ground and food in their mouths? It appears that these folks have long ago fallen over the cliff and are unlikely to ever climb back up.
Our neighbors, friends
A friend of mine confessed to me recently that he was forced to live in his car for a brief period because the house he had been renting for years was sold with very little notice. He slept and ate in parking lots and tried to find public restrooms. He was too ashamed to ask for help.
I am horrified that I didn’t know, that this friend spent a night or two in our marina parking lot. Because, had I known, I would have prepared a bed on our boat and insisted that he stay with us until he could figure something out.
It’s real: The homeless are not strangers. They are neighbors and friends. They are hanging out in doorways in our neighborhoods and in stores on Queen Anne, Magnolia and Ballard.
At my father’s funeral reception in December, I worried that there would not be enough food because we had grossly underestimated the numbers in attendance. An unkempt man in ragged clothing whom no one recognized was first in line at the buffet table. I watched with amazement as he piled a mountain of shrimp on his plate. Sensing my concern, my mother came up beside me and said, “Your father would be delighted.”
Realizing the truth of what she said, and the fact that Dad would have been the first to welcome him, I walked over to where he sat, enjoying his overflowing plate of food, and asked if there was anything else he needed. He looked at me with a surprised smile. How sad, I thought, to be surprised at simply being acknowledged and welcomed.
A new perspective
Putting all that in perspective, the boat doesn’t feel so small anymore. My earplugs are nestled in my ears. I have a warm cup of coffee next to my laptop and equally warm memories of a two-month hiatus from the cold. My claustrophobia is easing as I reach the end of writing this.
And when I see a homeless person on Queen Anne Avenue or Market Street, I will do my best to acknowledge them as neighbors. And to be grateful for the snug, little boat I am lucky enough to call home.
IRENE HOPKINS lived on Queen Anne for 20 years. She can be reached at hopkinsirene23@gmail.com. To comment on this column, write to QAMagNews@nwlink.com.