Different kinds of poverty

I want to tell you a story.

One time I saw a poor, homeless looking guy, wrapped in dark cloths and thick glasses clutching an electric guitar. He was crooning about love being the only thing in this world.

I felt and saw water dancing up from the ground. I knew the man was holy.

Divine.

 

One time, I slept with my grandmother in a four star hotel because she was in a fight with her husband. It was their 50th wedding anniversary. My grandfather is a good man I would want to think, but a bag man for bad people.

She woke up that morning so relieved to finally have slept in and not pestered with early morning golf news. I saw the light shine in the window.

I never saw my grandmother that happy.

 

And relieved.

That day I realized, there are different kinds of poverty.

 

I wonder sometimes why we envy celebrities or those who are born into riches. Have you sincerely met them ? My brother is straight up capitalist and had some rich girlfriends from gated villages. Her friends hung out in our house.

I remember asking my brother.

“yo, why are they all depressed ?”

They – their life sucks frankly. What emptiness. Privileged numbness, psychotic.

 

There are different kinds of poverty.

 

It’s ironic that I come from a really privileged background. I remember hating it when someone points it out as if it was some for of rich-shaming or othering. I remember telling that person “we’re all the same.”

We all have happiness , we all have hurts. We all have souls, we’re more alike than you’ll ever think.

 

It’s been years since that incident, yet I’ve only come to have a more visceral experience of this. That stuff of people, soul. Life making life on life. That’s what makes us tick, what makes us special or even dreaming the dream awake. Our consciousness is that forgotten goldmine buried in the most fundamental part of our beings.

And we still dare talk about people and what things they have on the surface.

 

I wonder how rich people are, with their truth.

With their daring to be alive.

With their love and capacity to understand and know themselves without the masks and the dictated expectations. Who are you, how are you when all of those drop away?

 

I’ve learned to be kind to very privileged people.

I know they hurt too.

I’ve learned to be patient with the poor, how I can be labeled as ‘other’ and how I sometimes the difference in upbringing that misplaces my expectations, my subconscious judgements and how listening– is a lost art by those who have never physically suffered.

I’m learning.

 

My life has went through some odd twists and turns, but I am at peace with my decisions. Poverty and it’s existence has been a sincere question of mine since I was younger. And now working with the poor and the weak has made me realize and face the details and rules of reality of why we cannot bring ourselves to help the weak.

I’m trying. I’m coaxing my fear to calm down and build a life around me that is simple yet happy.

One day I wish it wouldn’t be so weird for me to say that I help slum people get homes and representation in government as a job. Is it so senseless that we do that, when we’ve built literal mountains out of cement and gravel ?

 

Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written. There has been a lot going on in my mortal life and I’m not at a point yet where I can distill it into helpful writing. So I’m talking about my older experiences. My blog has been picking up more views too, consistently on the energy ley lines articles. I thank everyone for that. I appreciate it.

 

M