Memento mori

***********

“Hey,” I say softly, inquiringly, “what’s your name?” “Tameka,” she replies. “And thank you.”

Our eyes are locked, both a little sad, both a little grateful.

She was young. She was reserved. She was the last person I spoke to on the streets, that afternoon, and the conversation was short. It was only fifteen degrees out, after all, and we were both trying to rush her through the emergency overnight-shelter doors. She needed pants. Her faded jeans, peppered with damp splotches, were short, exposing her ankles. Long, tight braids tried to function as insulation as they cascaded over her thin, yellow jacket. And I’m not certain that her jacket was yellow, that day, as much as it is yellow in my mind, right now. When someone looks at you with eyes like hers, details such as color are rendered unimportant.

“These ski pants should do nicely, and please take these gloves, too. Your fingers are turning colors.” Worried about taking too much, she tries to refuse. Unrelenting, I wrap her frozen hands around them and walk her inside.

***********

It took four and a half hours to distribute the donations that filled my minimalist dining room. After spending the previous twenty hours collecting winter weather gear and taking them to emergency pop-up shelters, I unlocked my front door for Wendy and Johnny.

Wendy, a former public librarian, is both experienced in homeless interaction and is a quick and unfailing “yes” when I make wild, well-intentioned plans. Johnny, her husband, is always eager to help, and he thinks about things that I don’t - namely the dangers of a 5’1” woman entering homeless encampments on her own.

We fill his car with donations.

We fill his car with donations such that there is only enough room for us to climb in amongst the wreckage. Perched on a pile of pillows in the back seat, I peer over the second pile in my lap as we inch our way to the outskirts of downtown.

It felt like a human game of PacMan - a real-life, three dimensional hunt, but instead of eating our prey, we were cloaking it. We would turn circles to catch the person cutting through the wind on foot. We watched for displaced shopping carts that served as clues; and, armed with blankets, we invaded tent cities like stormtroopers.

We peered under overpasses, and, as Johnny searched his car for a clean, dry hat for the man on the street, I marveled at the faceless person, tucked into the pier cap, who slept so soundly in a tattered bag, even as semis rushed along the interstate mere feet over his his unflinching body. This is his life as he knows it, as he’s lived it. I covered him with two thick blankets before teetering over to the man watching me.

Guessing a homeless person’s age is a great impossibility. A life on the streets adds wrinkles and scars that are otherwise shielded by the comfort, the protection of a reliable roof. I guessed him to be beyond retirement age. Retirement from what? Maybe something that once kept him fed. Maybe nothing at all. He was gracious as he declined my fresh pillow and sleeping bag offer. He countered with a slow, nearly toothless grin and a request that I give it to someone who needs it more. His eyes, awash with sincerity, released mine - a silent nudge to continue our mission.

The more we take, the less we become.

Inspired by his generosity, his gentility, I shuffled back down the unforgiving concrete.

We were on purpose, that afternoon, which is to say that our focus rested solely on providing the community with warmth in its most literal sense. We drove in great quietude, and any conversation that crashed into our silence was solely about advancing the cause.

Strolling along Oklahoma Boulevard, dirty and care-free save for his lack of cigarette money, the man gleamed with pride as we paused his pace. He, too, needed pants, along with a cap and dry gloves. As we fished them from our stash, he delighted in telling Wendy and I, two women, that we could procreate without the act and that we were safe from the depths of hell simply due to our chromosomal makeup. Though he couldn’t place her, he recognized Wendy from her days as a reference librarian downtown. He gave Johnny an enthused hug and told each of us he loved us as we nervously offered well wishes.

Reality planted itself squarely in our path. And then he strolled along.

***********

Memento mori

Memento mori, a Latin phrase that translates to “remember you must die,” is the ancient practice of meditating on your mortality. It’s a prominent feature in my feed, lately, as I’ve developed a curiosity about stoicism’s parallels to yogic philosophy. It is the phrase that filled the gap between my thoughts once I learned of the homeless Tulsan who froze to death just twelve hours before this storied mission began.

It is the phrase that continues the fill today.

This snowstorm brought a fresh wave of reminders that we all must die, and in facing those waves - in thinking, meditating upon them - they also bring a soft spray of compassion, of empathy, of hope.

***********

Once upon a time, at a West Virginia University commencement address, Fred Rogers reminded a group of graduates that the world tomorrow will belong to those who bring it the greatest hope today. He told the story of a young man named Keith who lost his beloved grandfather at just twelve years old. Keith’s grandfather had fallen ill two years prior and spent his remaining time talking candidly about death with the prepubescent boy. Perhaps, more importantly, they spoke of living well, especially knowing what the unavoidable outcome is.

Though Keith was both angry and sad once his grandfather passed, he found wisdom in those two years of sweet conversations. He found solace in those talks of intentional living. He found purpose through his grandfather’s insistence that despite death’s inevitability for all living creatures, what matters most is how we care for them when they are alive.

Death is inevitable for all living creatures. What matters most is how we care for them when they are alive.

While the snowstorm asserted itself as a spectacle of great collapse, humanity did its best to refuse. I wasn’t the only one to organize efforts, and you’ll remember that the weaponries of warmth came to my dining room by way of donations from others. With worry, with dread, with air rendered unbreathable by anxiety, comes a sort of spectacular interconnectedness overlooked on any other day. Complacency gives way to action and hope fills the neighborhood.

Epilogue: Ahimsa is not a suggestion, but a vow. In my short tenure as a leader in the yoga community, I’ve never experienced such a dedicated commitment to honoring a vow. Kindness was prioritized over convenience, people over profit. This was the most magnitudinous example of yoga off the mat. Nobody offered their efforts for recognition, but recognition is deserved.

To those studios and studio owners who served as drop-off centers, thank you for adding efficiency and smoothness that would’ve otherwise been missing:
Desirae Penton of Dragon Yoga
Shannon Stephens of This Land Yoga
Adrianne Cannon of Balance Yoga Barre
Allison Candelaria of Soul Yoga

Karli, my sweet and spunky friend and forever OYC tech master, you gathered and promoted relentlessly, and that is, in large part, what helped make this successful.

Students and friends, Rebekah B and Lara V, purchased new blankets, hats, and gloves in addition to rallying their neighborhood for supplies and coordinating pick-ups. Amy G was on was on distribution standby, and by the number of items I received, I can only surmise that hundreds of the metro yogi collective gathered and gave.

To Johnny, our pilot and sounding board, thank you for your willingness to take quick turns and keeping us alive while doing so. To Wendy, my partner in all things adventurous for well over a decade now, I’ll always appreciate your decisiveness and open spirit. It was my most memorable pleasure to spend the afternoon on this mission with you both.

There are many moments that my dreamer and my practical sides are incompatible with one another. These are the larger moments that tell me that this isn’t true.

In gratitude for your exquisite kindness and with love always,



Adi