Cause He Just Keeps Rollin Along

Please be patient with the video. It takes a while to load.

Ol' man river.
That ol' man river.
He don't say nothin'
But he must know somethin'
Cause he just keeps rollin along

This past weekend we had the most incredible experience standing in a small stream, the headwaters in the heart of Shasta, California. It may not be a well known tourist attraction but with many of the locals, standing in this stream is not only an every day occurrence, but an every day ritual.

Graelle was on a spiritual mission. She stood on the rocks at the head of this stream and sang a song. She sang quietly so the words were not clear, but the look on her face was the same I wear when singing praise songs to Christ on Sundays. I knew her words were heartfelt even without hearing them. She ended the song by scooping up a few handfuls of water and sprinkling different parts of her anatomy. When she completed this ritual she smiled and waved at us.

"Good morning," I said. "May I ask what you were doing?"

"Sure! I was thanking the mountain for giving us these tears of joys she sheds and wishing the tears to touch the lives of others in her journey."

In doing my research, it seems this is a Native American tradition. One that many spiritualists, Native American or not have found beautiful and adapted them to their own way of life. Graelle continued to explain that these waters have changed her life and so to give back to the mountain, she fills water bottles for those passing through.

As she took our bottles and filled them, my mind began to race. I had never thought about the life of a river but here I was standing in this tiny pool of water, and through the journey of these tears of joy, I knew I was supposed to be here at this moment to hear of this ritual and how it correlates to this journey of mine.

This is where it begins. With something small. Something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. As the water trickles down and sets out on its passage, it gathers strength in those tributaries it meets along the way.

A trickle.
A trickle that meets with other trickles that helps it to become a stream.
A stream meets with other trickles that have become streams themselves.
Those other streams help it to become a creek.
A creek that meets with other trickles that have become streams that have become creeks themselves.
Those other creeks help it to become a river.
A river that meets with other trickles that have become streams that have become creeks that have become rivers themselves.
This river that met with other trickles, that became streams, that became creeks, that became rivers has now become a sign of hope for all those who partake of its powers.
This river that was once a creek, that was once a stream that began as a trickle is now known as the Sacramento River.

Twelve inches. That's all it is. An opening only twelve inches wide brings forth such power, such might, such ambition, such dreams.

I knew within the first month of my journey that it would not end when I cross into Mexico. There is such a need out there. Much more than I never knew was possible. I set out to be a change in the world. Instead the world has been a change in me.

When I speak to the directors of shelters, transitional housings, and food banks, I hear the same thing. No matter what state, what city, what type of foundation I am at, this is what I hear and the order I hear it in.

"Listen. When you listen it shows you care."
"Spread the word. If more people thought of the homeless as a neighbor down on their luck and not someone who, drunk or high, or is lazy and just needs to get a job then we would have less of a homeless problem."
"Donate. Even if you only have 50 cents, that 50 cents could buy a pair of socks for someone who has none."

Notice money is always last. It isn't that it isn't important because it always is. But a kind look, a kind touch, a kind thought means more than all the money in the world.

I am only one person. I can not do this alone. They all need your help. In order for this journey to work, it needs to go viral. In order for it to go viral, I need your help. If I share the purpose of this journey with 10 people, and those 10 people share it with 10 other people and those 10 people share it with 10 other people. Well the possibilities are endless.

1 person
1 person shares with 10 other people
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 100
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 1000
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 10,000
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 more people = 100,000
1 person shares with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share it with 10 other people, who share with 10 more people = 1,000,000

I am one voice and with your help as the streams and creeks and rivers join in this journey, we could become the chorus that ends homelessness. Be a tributary. Pass this blog, video and website to everyone you know. Be the change.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHCXjBZKmMM

http://www.change-for-life.org/

http://www.walking4change.blogspot.com/

The Eyes Have It

Paul Newman eyes. That's what I call them. An intense, penetrating blue that could pierce your very soul. Sometimes as with Shawnee, you could actually look into those eyes and see nothing. No life, no emotion, and seemingly no essence. It was those eyes that caught my attention, not the waist length emerald, sapphire and amethyst strands of hair. Nor was it the multiple facial piercings; nor the pair of hands that were tattooed in a choke hold around her. It was her Paul Newman eyes.

Although kids have always been part of my life, first mine and for the last 18 years, kids of others, I knew from experience that I was "The Company." In my day we called it "the Establishment." Either way I would be deemed suspicious. Shawnee would be on her guard around me until trust could be earned, if ever. Therefore I wanted to see her in her element; to see her be herself, the way she acted around her peers. I needed to see her while her invisible protective force field was down.

My maternal heart quivered with compassion for this adolescent which gave me this overwhelming desire to know what was behind those eyes. Why were they so empty? Did they mirror her life? From what I could already recognize, they held horror, fear, an awfulness that few of us could ever perceive.

She was petite, no more than five feet tall. The boy's pants she wore hung low on her hips, making them sag in places that were meant for tautness. The too small tank top exposed more violent in nature tattoos on her biceps, neckline and wrists. Her attire also revealed a paunch that could only be achieved through motherhood, telling me without words, that her maternal heart had been wounded deeply. Her masculine mannerism opened to the elements one who trusted no one; who needed no one; who loved no one, including herself.

After only a few days of observation, I knew many of her likes and dislikes. What made her angry and what made her smile. She had an awkward smile; one that was given rarely and when it was, always through clenched jaws that matched the fists that were always at the ready. She chain smoked with a vengeance, sometimes tossing a joint into the mix, never caring what people thought. Or did she? Was she wanting to get caught, perhaps even needing to be caught?

When she accompanied one of her friends who had been accosted to the emergency room, she looked like she would rather be anywhere else but there, but to her credit, she waited albeit nervously. I made it a point to introduce myself and asked if I could buy her a cup of coffee. While the friend was in surgery, she and I had a chance to talk. I was taken aback when what started out to be a casual chat turned out to be a gushing of self-restricted, fury and fear.

I hadn't yet met a kid that gave his or her right name. It seemed to be not only a way of hiding from their past but a new identity as well. Blue eyes called herself Badger as I would find out in time, the name was apropos as were most self-proclaimed titles.

It turned out Badger was 25 years old and had more battle scars than most people acquire in a lifetime. Badger was born a Native American, abandoned to her 39 year old abusive grandmother in Oklahoma. She was raped by grandmother's boyfriend at the age of fourteen.

"I don't want no damned liar living under my roof," the grandmother drunkenly stated, after Badgers confession of what had been done to her. Seven weeks after the declaration, her grandmother married her off to the highest bidder. The going price for a child bearing fourteen-year old was $239 and a 1969 Cadillac convertible that wasn't running.

Six months later, Badger gave birth to a little girl which was promptly taken away from her and given to the boyfriend, even though it supposedly wasn't his. During Badger's 6 year marriage, she survived extreme verbal abuse, multiple broken bones, and even a gunshot wound to the chest which left her heart a bit weaker than normal. Badger gave birth to two more children, both products of spousal rape.

She loved her children as best she could and through the abuse and violence she did what she could to protect them from their father's daily rants. But the courts declared her an unfit mother when her husband broke the arm and collar bone of their 10 month old boy. She left Oklahoma an empty shell when her children were taken from her and given to the grandmother that never treated her as anything more than a slave.

Badger has seen it all, done it all and at 26 is worn out and tired. Although she has never spoken the words out loud, I believe that if she could lay down and go to sleep, never to awaken, she would be content for the first time in her short life. She went back to Oklahoma two years ago to begin the battle of regaining custody of her children. Although my time with Badger came to an end, her story hasn't. I see it in the faces of the new Badgers. The Badgers that have been abandoned, battered, raped and worse.

Named after a character in CATS, Mungojerrie/Chloe is a pick pocket who insists that all the pockets she has stolen from were deserving. Zelda chose Pariah after her parents labeled her as a social outcast and sent her out into the world to fend for herself at 15. Pregnant 17 year old Lisa calls herself Gypsy. She never stays in one place for very long, for fear of her step-father, also the man who impregnated her, will find her.

There will always be "Badgers," but maybe we can reach out just a little and offer a bit of hope. As I walk these 1863 miles I beg of you, if you have a heart for kids, especially the one and one half million kids who have never had anyone give them their hearts, then please donate 1 penny for every mile to your nearest teen shelter.

Be the Change