Bums and Bag Ladies.

I already knew I had a thing for homeless people before I went to San Francisco this weekend, but frolicking along Fisherman's Wharf rekindled the fire in my heart for them.

I think I have a bum shaped pocket in my heart simply because I was homeless until I was 15. I wasn't houseless, just homeless. Every house I lived in never felt like home. And my mom is a house on wheels away from being homeless. She resides in an RV with no job, no money, and no hope. My heart yearns for her to be happy, cries out for her to be whole.

Her rather unfortunate residence flings soiled newspapers on the fire in my heart for the wandering vagrants of this world. They have stories to tell just like us.

I'm reading a book called Good News for the Chemically Dependent and Those Who Love Them. Not all, but a heck of a lot of homeless people were once, or still are, strung out on some sort of chemical. They started using the chemical as a means of avoiding some sort of heavy emotion. Sooner, rather than later, they became dependent on the chemical so that the light at the top of the pit started shrinking exponentially as they scratched their way deeper and deeper.

I don't want to put addicts or vagrants in boxes, they've seen enough of the carboardy kind. I'll leave them out of the proverbial boxes too. I just want you to read the book. Perhaps it will help you be a little more compassionate towards the man loitering on the median as you exit the freeway. And regardless of whether or not you give them money, smile at them.

As I walked and drove the wild streets of San Francisco these past couple days, there were moments when I wanted to stop and ask a homeless person to dance with me. I know. Point and laugh at me. But my heart cries out for them, just wants to leap out of my chest and shout joy into their lives, joy and hope.

And the transients in San Francisco are clever, so very clever. I saw a one man band, complete with guitar, drums, cymbals, harmonica, and a great voice. I saw several men that appeared to be made of tin, that would dance when you put money in their bucket. There were men that jumped out of trashcans and from behind make believe bushes that asked for money once they succeeded in scaring the hell out of you. I even saw a man screaming "I don't hate society. I hate you." I almost gave him money for his honesty. I saw two guys with a carboard sign that said "why lie, I need a beer." on one side and "I like weed." on the other. As I walked by one of the guys said "she likes roses, I like weed." as he gestured to me. I met a kind vagabond on a meridian who tried to give me directions that I didn't need.

Homeless people are so incredibly intriguing to me. After this year I want to be homeless on purpose. I really do. I want to wander this country with a pack on my back and dwell with the tramps. My cardboard signs will be so clever they'll knock your pants off. I once saw a bum with a sign that said, "Ninjas killed my family. Please help." My signs will probably be outrageous like that, and they'll probably all involve unicorns in some capacity.

So my word of advice for this bloggity, don't give them money, but please smile at them, speak to them, tell them that they matter. Because they don't believe they do.