For years I used public transportation to commute from our Rhode Island home to the Silk Road Project office when the arts organization was in residence at Harvard University. I took the MBTA from Wickford in Rhode Island to South Station in Boston, then transferred to the Red Line for the ride to Harvard, and from there walked over a mile to the office.
During those years, I saw homeless men give themselves a facecloth bath using the toilet water in the South Station men’s room. I walked past people sleeping on subway grates on JFK Street in Harvard Square and people tucked into doorways to get out of the wind.
These images from my commuting days remain with me. They stick because they remind me of my life in the winter of 1979 when I was trying to make a living as a musician and was floundering.
That winter, I lived out of a van that lacked cabinets, shelves, heat and utilities. When I needed to sleep, I would park the van in truck stops, parking lots or anywhere I could hide and be unnoticed for the night. I didn’t have much money for food or gasoline. I tried to save enough money to afford a hot shower at truck stops. At the time I didn’t know I was living in of the lowest points of my life. It took me over 45 years to be able to recognize what it was: homelessness.
I was fortunate to get some footing after that winter. By the grace and kindness of many people, I learned many lessons and survived. The following spring and summer I performed every day on Block Island. I was hired at an arts camp. I started teaching privately. I earned enough money to eat, rent an apartment and a phone (a land line). I have never been never homeless again.
I stopped commuting to Cambridge in 2019. These days, my “commute” is spent walking along the Blackstone River Bike Path. I take the same route most mornings. It gives me a chance to stop the doom scrolling, chaos and click bait that clutter my mind. For a few miles, I can set aside my outrage about the cruelty that lies behind current events.
As I walk, I try to notice what’s changed since the last time I passed by. Some changes are subtle; others, more surprising. I watch the cycle of the seasons, the weather, leaves, birds and other animals.
Last year two camping tents appeared along the riverbank. One was visible from an upstairs window of our home which sits about two football fields away from the river. That tent weathered various summer storms, some of which raised the river to near-flood level. I never saw anyone come or go from the tent but every so often there was a minor adjustment to the way the tent sat near the riverbank. The other tent sat a couple hundred yards off the bike path. There wasn’t any direct route to it, but one could climb down and make their way there. It was clearly visible.
My wife and I considered walking through the woods, finding the tents and delivering a bag of non-perishable groceries. If we went, would we be welcomed or would we be considered a possible threat? What if the person had a gun or something else that could be used as a weapon? What should we do?
We decided against going.
Both tents remained throughout the summer. They disappeared after the leaves fell.
Early this summer I saw a beaver swimming in the canal next to the bike path. I never saw one swimming before. That was something new.
I also saw another new thing on the path: a young man peddling a bicycle. Hitched to his bike was a homemade trailer carrying what I assumed were his belongings. He peddled his rig past me a couple of times over the next few weeks.
I noticed he had a guitar strapped to the front of his bicycle, and every memory about being homeless came flooding back. This person was the living embodiment of my life 47 winters ago. A little voice in the back of my head worries it could happen to me again.
For a couple of days, he parked his rig in a little clearing by the bridge that crosses the Cumberland-Lincoln border. The first day there, he was sitting in a lawn chair. I didn’t disturb him. The next day no one was with his stuff. I thought about walking over to his guitar case and sliding $20 or $30 under the strap that held it to his bike, then walking away.
I became fearful and very cautious. I did nothing. My better angels were quiet that day.
The third time I passed the spot he was gone. I have not seen him since.
I would like to think that on my third pass, I would have summoned some courage, introduced myself, offer him something that my better angels could be proud of.
I keep thinking of a hymn called A Beautiful Life. The chorus goes:
Life’s Evening Sun is sinking Low
A few more days and I must go
To meet the deeds that I have done
Where there will be no setting sun
And I wonder: Will we meet the deeds we fail to do?