Here I lived. Almost. About 40 miles north. In Abiquiu. Where Georgia O’Keeffe visited in the 1920s. Captivated by the rawest of beauty, she never returned to NYC.
In March, I saw a piece in my local paper, The LA Times. Written and photographed by Pulitzer finalists. Why, I thought, is the LA Times writing about Española — a dusty “city” of 10,000, thirty minutes south of Santa Fe? New Mexico?
Then I read it.
Francine Orr, Los Angles Times, 2023, Española Pathways Shelter
I decided to drive south — meet those gritty souls sacrificing to save a city ransacked for decades with generational trauma and infamous for its drug culture.
My heart is there now. I go back and forth. Hop from Orange County to Española.
I work with the shelter. And the schools. The teens. The ones who look into my eyes with disbelief. “Why would you want to come work HERE?”
“It’s a hobo town.”
“Because I want to. You inspire me to be a better person.”
I don’t wear my faith on my sleeve. A couple of times, they’ve asked.
“Are you religious?”
“No, but I follow Jesus.”
Week by week, transformation. I see it— glimmers of hope, recovery, healing.
The rudders of pleasure and pain drive us, as Aristotle told us. All of us. Every action — based on this innate proclivity from the moment we wake until we sleep again…
Avoid pain. Pursue pleasure.
But what about suffering? Aristotle didn’t mention suffering. And there’s a difference. Right now, my calves are sore from a sprinting workout — pain.
Countless children are experiencing hunger, disease, severe abuse, and neglect — that’s suffering.
It was Frankyl who, while in the concentration camp at Theresienstadt, realized that despite the freedoms ripped from him, he nonetheless possessed liberties: he could exercise, encourage others, and refuse to demonize her captors.
He never lived in denial with any form of toxic positivity. He accepted reality. And, he accepted his ability to, nonetheless, exercise his few freedoms.
And it was Dostoyevsky (understanding too well due to his violent and unexpected epileptic seizures) who said, “Accept suffering and be redeemed by it.”
I lost my Mother two years ago. For some reason, the loss jolted my senses this week yet again.
Some of you have experienced loss and the subsequent stages: denial, depression, anger, and bargaining.
Day by day, and year by year, I am coming to realize the redemptive part of this loss, this suffering, and it brings such hope.
In our personal lives and work, may we all strengthen our capacity to meet setbacks with understanding. May we even be redeemed by it.
The Finality of Her, Again. The June gloom gray sky today tells all.
We parted two years ago today. We sat around her bed, her children and grandchildren. We cried, then laughed. We reminisced. On the bed lay fresh-picked rose petals scattered around.
She really loved roses, Mom. She loved them unlike anyone else. She’d always stop and smell them while walking, even in a hurry. And she would always get mad if you didn’t stop and smell them with her — not angry, more like “mad,” if you know what I mean. She believed stopping to smell the roses was a remedy for being too busy, too occupied with matters of less importance.
To Mom, few things mattered more than beauty: sights, sound, smell, taste.
The sky was gray on that morning of May 29, 2001. For over an hour, her inhales and exhales became weaker and weaker. You could see her frail chest with just a thin layer of skin. Up then down, then up then down. And you knew the last one was imminent. We watched and talked and laughed and cried with a sort of suspense in the back of our minds, knowing these were the final moments.
The reality of a last breath, the finality of it all. By all I refer to life. As I said during her eulogy, she no longer is, she was. The finality of her. The end. You read about these kinds of things — death — but when it’s your mother and when she’s the love of your life.
And when it’s over, it’s over. Not her soul, if you believe in souls. But the other part, the physical part.
The sky is gray today as it was when I grabbed her hand, squeezed it slightly, and took one final look at the saintly woman who was my mother. Then turned my back on her and walked away to tell Dad.
You would think I’d be “over it” by now, but I’m not. Not one bit. Some of you know the feeling too well.
Something about the color gray, and the dim light — there is light for sure — that perfectly captures my internal feelings now.
Light, but muted and lacking.
Bree sent me this today, and it made me cry a bit. Something about when your children mature and start caring for you. The feeling I find surreal.
And I smiled because no way Mom had room in her house for another photo of her children.
“You mean you left LA to be here? In Española? Why in the heck would you do that? There’s nothing out here. It sucks.”
She is about 10 feet away. Black shiny wavy long hair. Maroon sweater and a blue backpack to her left on her desk.
I zero in. Stare into her eyes without even a fluttering of my eyelids.
“Because I want to be here with you.”
I jerk my gaze and look at José, then James then Sylvia as I say, “And for you, and for you, and for you,” pointing with my right index finger in unison with “you.”
Do you know that look – almost like a blush, but nothing romantic? The this-is-so-hopeful-I-almost-don’t-believe-it look?
I was one of them as a teenager. And in my twenties. And into my thirties. You feel alone. You think you’re not one of them. You feel nobody important cares about you.
A boy at the corner of the horseshoe table raises his hand. “So, Paul, you were a horrible student in high school. You didn’t have the best family life, and education wasn’t stressed when you were our age. And you made it.”
“What do you expect we do better?”
Total silence in the class. They await my answer. I relish their attention. What I say will matter.
“You’re in bed. It’s pitch dark. You’re thirsty. You get up. You must search with your hands for the light switch. You all know what I mean?”
Nodding.
“You find the switch. You flip it. You now see. Your vision changes. You’ve all been there?”
More nods.
“That will happen to some of you. You will somehow see that nobody can f-ing determine your future. You will become almost enraged, obsessed, almost demonized. Because it’s your life — you will own it and not let anyone else own it.”
Silence. Fourteen fixed gazes.
On the wall is the mission statement of the school. I point to it. I read this part.
“Look at that. You believe it? You? A globally competitive citizen?”
Stares.
“I do, and I thank each of you for being so respectful and paying attention.”
As founder of theChild Rights Foundation, I am here, we are here, for them. Because children matter. And they are always innocent.
Just now. I’m lecturing. The kids are interacting. A man walks in, and he looks official.
I used “shit” a few times in the previous classes. He opens a laptop and sits on a chair beside my desk. I think I might be in trouble. But that’s my normal hypervigilance. I read the intro to Catcher, including the swear words figuring it’s okay because they’re in the book.
I conclude my 15-minute lecture. One kid thanks me for teaching them and “getting us to think” The class claps. I put my right hand on my heart as a way of thanks.
I sit at the desk next to the man. He says he’s the special ed teacher and comes in for students needing help. I tell the students, “You have free help here, guys, take advantage of it.”
We get to talking. I tell my story about why I’m in Espanola. That I care.
“Weren’t you at The Rock church yesterday?”
Yesterday I visited the famous El Santuario de Chimayó — the world reknown site with the holy dirt. On the drive back to Abiquiu had to pass thorugh Espanola. Saw a bunch of cars parked on the main street. Wondered what was going on. And wondered what a chruch in this city would be like. Walked in for attended the remainder of the service.
He says they are the first homeless shelter (ever) in Espanola. “How could this city of known for its crime and drug use have no homeless shelter until now?
He says he was the former County Commissioner of Rio Arriba.
He wants to introduce me to the shelter director.
He wants me to meet with the church pastor, which has a program for addicts, a shelter, a pantry, etc.
He sat just two feet from me. I didn’t have to go to him. He came to me.
