I always hear various panhandlers and beggars on the train. I always listen, even if I'm pretending not to. I *never* give. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because how do I choose who to give to? I don't know if I can afford to give to everyone. How do I know who's honest? Who deserves my dollar the most? Anyway, this morning on my way to work a man came on my subway car and gave his story. For some reason I could picture it perfectly. He talked about not making it to a shelter last night and spending the night on the train, his body sore today from sleeping on the hard seats. I had such a vivid image in my mind as he told his tale. He then asked quite genuinely for money, but even more so for something to eat. All I could think of was the slice of homemade bread I had in my bag. Annie baked it last night and I cut, toasted and buttered 2 pieces to eat this morning. I could only eat one however, so I wrapped the other and placed it in my bag to take with me to work. What kept me from giving it? I was afraid of being embarrassed, of the other train riders watching me, all of them looking down pretending not to hear this man. I was afraid he'd say no (I've actually had friends who've offered people food and been aggressively denied).
As he continued on his way, I was hit by a wave of guilt. Here I am going about my little life, full of so much. Despite my perhaps petty philosophical and emotional crises, I want for nothing. My basic needs are met. I suddenly felt this huge urge to give, to help those not as fortunate as myself. Is what I'm doing with my life really helping people? How can I feel the direct connection of helping others? How can I know that I'm making a difference? Just a few small thoughts for a Thursday morning in New York City...
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